


A Shred of Honor

by SuperSinse



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Explicit Language, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-02-09 14:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 132,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12890073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperSinse/pseuds/SuperSinse
Summary: When a simple walk leads Amelia to the last place she ever expected to see, she finds that she has to fight her way through everything; battles, arguments and to find her way home.Tags will be updated as story progresses





	1. Over the Ledge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kayla Rane](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kayla+Rane).



> “Every exit is an entry somewhere else.”  
> -Tom Stoppard

Amelia glanced up at her customer, a tall, blonde woman chewing gum, as she took her money out of her hand and added them to the total.  
“Thank you. Everything adds up. One latte coming right up.” The woman didn’t smile or acknowledge that she had heard Amelia’s words, but merely walked away and took a seat at an empty table. She looked quite bored with the café already. Amelia rolled her eyes discretely and looked up at the large, round clock hanging over the entrance to the café.  
“Simon?” She called to a young, dark-haired man arranging a plate with muffins in the display so they looked just right. “Would you take over here? I’m going home early today.”  
“How come?” Simon asked as he took over and began to serve an elderly man with a rather voluminous beard and, strangely, clad entirely in grey.  
“No reason.” Amelia answered with a shrug. “Just… want to do some math.”  
“Again?” Amelia gave him a small, teasing smile.  
“Takes my mind off things. And I have a habit of working overtime anyways, so why not?” Simon nodded, already busy taking the customer’s order and Amelia turned away, content with the knowledge that the old man was in relatively safe hands. Then, she half-turned back again and said over her shoulder “By the way, did you finish that book I borrowed you?”  
“The Fellowship of the Ring?” Amelia nodded. “Yeah, sorry, I forgot to bring it today. You can have it tomorrow though.” Amelia noticed that the old man was looking directly at her. She pointedly ignored him.  
“Great. Opinion?” Choosing to wait until she had finished her conversation with changing her clothes, she turned fully towards Simon again.  
“Good book. A little old, but, well… And shit, that ending, huh?” Amelia gave an affirming hum. “I mean, I get it, sacrifice for the greater good and all, but…”  
“Yeah, I get it. I never had much particular affection towards the so-called ‘greater good’ myself.”  
“Is that so?” The old man interrupted. He looked like he was amused by the two baristas in front of him. Amelia could see that there were no other customers waiting and decided to indulge him.  
“Yes, that’s so. Besides, we only know the outcome of that guy’s death. Yeah, sure, great and noble thing right there, but maybe he could have done even more if he’d lived. But hey, we’ll never know now, since Tolkien is pretty dead.” Amelia finished with a decisive nod and crossed arms, daring anyone to oppose her. The old man merely smiled below his long beard and nodded slightly to himself, as if deep in thought.  
“Yes, I suppose we will never know. Not now.” Amelia gave him an odd look and turned away, to change out of her barista uniform and back into more comfortable clothes.  
As she stepped out onto the street and, pulling her heavy coat closer around her, she nearly slipped on the icy sidewalk, but steadied herself by holding onto the wall of the building. Living in Vermont was cold, particularly so in the winter, but it gave Amelia the opportunity to live in obscurity, out of reach and mostly out of tune with the rest of the world. She preferred it that way, as opposed to her two brothers who lived in bigger cities in other states. She found herself thinking that it was rather strange. It was a cold day and yet there had been no customers wanting a hot drink after the old man. Thinking back on it, Amelia couldn’t recall the woman’s name being called out or whether she had even received her beverage at all.  
“Whatever.” She mumbled to herself as she walked down Church Street and crossed the road to get to the left side. A gust of an icy wind blew through the street and she pushed her light brown hair out of her view and continued on, hurrying to catch the next bus before it drove without her. 

Amelia pushed the key into the lock and twisted, pushing open the door to her diminutive house. She heard Bruno scuffling around in the kitchen as she hesitantly debated whether she ought to take off her coat or not, but then continued into it with her coat still on. She rubbed her forehead as she dropped her keys on the small kitchen table shoved up against the wall, Bruno hurrying over with a meow to greet her. He trotted up and rubbed his cheek against her leg and she bent down to stroke him twice, swiftly, before she twisted her head, cricks coming from her neck, and picked up her cat. He meowed at her and she kissed the side of his head as she carried him over to his bowl. It was still a bit early for her to feed him, since she had left work early, but she still filled his old bowl and scratched his neck.  
“I need to think.” She mumbled to Bruno as he licked up a few mouthfuls of water. “I know it’s weird but… Ah, what the heck, no one’s around to tell me I’m crazy. I’ll be right back.”  
Amelia’s house was small, by American standards, but she didn’t need anything roomy or grand. She didn’t have anyone to show it to and liked it that way.  
She pulled her heavy, plum purple tighter around herself, put on her large, black boots lined with fur and glanced back at the kitchen, still lit behind her. She got a strange feeling in her stomach and stood with her hand on the doorknob, contemplating something unknown to even herself.  
“Yeah. Just in case.” She mumbled and hurried back in. She didn’t care to take her boots off, but just grabbed her ‘just in case’-bag from where it was leaning against her armchair. It was a black backpack with red zippers. She always had it ready in the event that she got the sudden urge for a walk in the woods around her house, as it had that afternoon. Taking random walks in solitary surroundings to clear her head wasn’t wise, but it wasn’t rare for her to do either. In the backpack was a personal favorite of her books, of which she owed a fair amount, a small flashlight with a pack of batteries, twenty dollars, some fingerless gloves and an old postcard from her one brother back when she had just moved to Burlington.  
She hurried out the front door without looking back again.  
The thin layer of snow crunched beneath her feet as she walked down the street, with her backpack slung over a shoulder, as she thought to herself, of everything and nothing, simply letting her mind wander. She turned left, as she always did, and into the forest made of tall, dark trees. In the months where she was still adjusting to her new home, she had been quite hesitant to wander alone, but that trepidation waned and disappeared when she dared to go further and further into the woods and the worst she ever encountered was a dead mouse.  
The silence and the slowly falling snow around her seemingly pressed down upon her and wrapped itself around her, not as a vicious predator strangling the life out of her body, but like a thick blanket cutting her off from the rest of her world.  
Amelia adjusted her backpack and continued onwards and deeper into the forest, knowing full well that wandering into dark forest in the night wasn’t exactly a smart thing to do, but she continued on, having done this many times before. She rubbed her eyes as she walked over a fallen log and her feet made a soft sound as they landed on the leaves covering the forest floor. She rolled her shoulders and pulled the other strap of the backpack up on her other shoulder so she could swing her arms around better. However, after a few more steps, she stopped abruptly and looked down.  
The forest floor was covered in leaves.  
Not snow or sludge, but leaves, some of them looking pretty fresh and a few even green. Amelia’s eyes narrowed as she even spotted a few patches of healthy, green moss growing merrily.  
Winter always came early to Vermont, and with it came snow, though most often if was simply a deluge of sleet or freezing rain. In that October, the snow had come early in the year and the floor of the forest had been covered in it when she left her home, unmarred by human footsteps.  
A nearby sound made her jump and she turned to her right, slowly taking steps backwards until she had her back pressed against a tree. An oak tree, not pine, as in the normal woods in Vermont. Amelia shuddered, despite the sudden warmth of her heavy coat, but steeled herself.  
A huffing sound reached her ears and a gruff voice said loudly, in the distance “Could we not stop and rest? The Council will not be upon us for days still!” His choice of words seemed curious to Amelia.  
“Courage! We will reach the valley soon. Do you not hear the distant sound of its waterfalls yourself?”  
Amelia knew by then that it was an impossibility for her to have ever actually walked out her front door. She had probably fallen asleep stroking the neck of her cat and this was but a realistic dream, conjured up by her own mind. Granted, her dreams were rarely as clear as this, but everything had its first time.  
As it was a dream, by her logic, she was in no real danger and thus, she could either indulge it or try to wake up.  
She had no desire to meet the owner of such gruff a voice and continued on her own, somewhat parallel with those who still chattered amongst themselves, but still in the same direction.  
The ground came to an upwards slope and Amelia briefly put down her backpack to shrug off her coat and tie its arms around her waist, displaying her grey sweater with the name of her state printed in green across it for a nearby red squirrel to see. That was another thing that did not match up with the world she knew; where she came from, squirrels were usually grey.  
Amelia found it weird that she was still tired from her day of work, and she had risen early that morning out of restlessness, and yet it seemed to be nearing noon wherever her mind had decided to take her. She looked down and annoyance blossomed in her chest as she realized that her clothes in general weren’t exactly suitable for wandering around in a forest either. Loose jeans, with scruffy knees, mismatched socks, heavy black boots lined with fur, a white undershirt beneath her sweater and a heavy coat would quickly become very hot in a fresh, clear forest where the air wasn’t cold, but merely comfortably cool.  
Her coat nearly touched the ground as it made a strange half-skirt around her waist, but it didn’t drag and Amelia had been through worse.  
She hoisted her backpack up against and soldiered on, content to just let herself enjoy her surroundings instead of worrying about the technicalities of her predicament. She hummed a nonsensical tune to herself as she swiped a branch out of her way and promptly gaped at the sight before her.  
A city made of elegant architecture gleamed like a jewel in the sunlight, nestled comfortably in a valley, with soft waterfalls falling around it. Its walls, made of some material she couldn’t decipher from such a distance, were whiter than snow and in the sunlight, just looking at it nearly made Amelia’s eyes water from the brightness. Marble paths twirled and arched, forming elaborate patterns and somewhere, it seemed that the twitter of a bird mixed with the gentle sound of the falling water.  
Amelia made a low whistle, impressed by the glorious sight in front of her. She noticed that she stood on a ledge that had been obscured by the low branches of the trees around her and would have dropped straight to her death had she not been captivated by the sight of the city on the valley. She wasn’t worried, seeing as she still firmly believed it was a mere dream and she would have most likely just awoken from the shock. She had no desire to hurl herself out over a cliff just to test whether she’d wake up or not and instead looked around herself, to see if there wasn’t a path leading closer to the city. For there not to be one, her mind would have had to have a peculiar sense of humor.  
“Have you lost your way, my lady?” A male voice called from behind her and Amelia swore that her heart jerked out of her chest and fluttered over the ledge in shock. She spun around, nearly hyperventilating from the sudden interruption of her contemplation.  
“Jesus!” She exclaimed, both from shock and the notice that the owner of the voice was on a horse. A pretty tall and pretty living, actual horse. “Oh, you scared the crap out of me!” It was difficult to tell, with him atop such a steed, but the man seemed tall, with a muscular build beneath his peculiar, but fine clothes, a strong jaw and brown hair reaching his jaw. Amelia hadn’t seen a man with such long hair before, but it suited him in a strange manner.  
“Your pardon, my lady?” The man looked puzzled and cocked his head ever so slightly. Amelia huffed a bit and crossed her arms as the horse shook its head. She eyed it wearily. Then, the man dismounted in an easy, smooth movement, so easily that Amelia might have missed it if she’d looked away for but a second. The man was obviously an experienced rider. He rested a hand on a hilt at his belt, seemingly out of instinct and approached her slowly, cautiously. Amelia jumped a bit when the horse snorted loudly. The corner of the man’s mouth perked upwards a bit. She grimaced at him.  
“Yes.” She simply stated then and the man’s brow furrowed. “Yes, I’m… I’m lost. Like, really lost. I’ve never been here before.”  
“You seem unnerved.” The man stated calmly when she glanced at his horse again, who was waiting for his rider.  
“Yeah, well… this is kind of my first time actually seeing a horse this close, so… yep. Yeah. It’s big. Wonder if they’re actually that tall.” The man raised his eyebrows, surprised.  
“You have truly never?” Again, the way he spoke seemed odd to Amelia, but then again, he was carrying around a mother of a sword, with a horn hanging from his belt and a silver tree on his dark tunic. “You are not from Rohan then.” Amelia nearly laughed at his assumption. Middle-Earth then. She was well acquainted with the world, having read both books and watched movies with her sister-in-law about it.  
Her mind was stiff and calm, forcing down the slight hysteria rising within it.  
“No. Not at all. And you’re from Gondor.” She nodded towards the sigil displayed proudly on his chest. She noticed that her surroundings were remarkably calm compared to how she felt. It was her dream. Wasn’t it supposed to go mental along with her?  
“That much is true, my lady.” Amelia snorted at him. “Have I caused offence?”  
“No, but you sure have caused… Never mind that. And never mind that… ladyness either. I’m not a lady.”  
“Your clothes and speech may seem strange, but you are a woman and as a woman I shall treat you.” Amelia whistled lowly at him again.  
“Wow. Alright then. I’ve been called a lot of things but a lady isn’t one of ‘em.” She half-smiled, forcing herself to remain calm. It was a dream. “Name’s Amelia. Amelia Jones. Pleased to meet you and all that, out of the way, done deal, pleasantries over with. And you?” The man was suppressing a smile at that point, studying her like she was an interesting equation. He inclined his head politely, obviously not keen on letting the most basic formalities go.  
“I am called Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of the white city of Gondor.” Amelia nearly had a heart attack at that revelation, but her mind had gone weirdly numb in something akin to resignation. She forced herself to appear calm, despite the minimal shake that had come to her hands.  
“I’ve heard of you.” She answered her revelation slowly, carefully. She found it difficult, but not impossible to imagine the man reaching out for a golden ring, filling his head with whispers and promises of power. “Boromir.” A nauseous feeling rose in her gut and she forced it down. She began to acknowledge that something else was at work than her own mind. She had a good imagination, but not such an amazing one to imagine the living person in front of her to such a detailed extent. “God, I think I might be going mad. Or I’m dreaming. It’s one of those two.” She said aloud, paying no mind to Boromir any longer.  
“Perhaps we should make for the city? It seems to be…”  
“Yes. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.” Amelia waved her hand at him. Then, her eyes widened. “Wait. Hold your horses and back up a moment.” Boromir looked confused at her expression. “Time out. You… are a polite person. Good guy. At least, you’re making that impression. You could still be a creepy stalkery sort.” She felt the fine hairs on her back rising, thinking of a small, dark-haired hobbit kicking the man down a slope covered in leaves. “So you wouldn’t just ride ahead. But… you want to make a fitting entrance because you’re a man of importance, big deal, yadda yadda. On horseback.” She looked at the horse and her shoulder rose up in an unwilling defense-mechanism. “No way. No friggin’ way am I getting on that thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aesthetics, teasers, edits and more can be found on the corresponding blog, a-shred-of-honor.tumblr.com


	2. Down in the Valley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Blessed are they who have the gift of making friends, for it is one of God’s best gifts. It involves many things, but above all, the power of getting out of one’s self and appreciating whatever is noble and loving in another.”  
> -Thomas Hughes

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow…” Amelia chanted to herself with each step the brown horse took. The saddle rocked with each step, branches occasionally left small leaves in her hair and she constantly felt like she was going to slip off the animal and land face-down on the ground, not to mention the jolting pain in her lower regions. And the horse wasn’t going very fast. She felt slightly ashamed at how tightly she clutched the back of Boromir’s tunic. At least he was courteous enough to not get angry with her. He was more patient than Amelia would have assumed, hadn’t she met him herself.  
“This is just awful.” She mumbled to herself.  
“At first I thought you to be making a jest when you said you were an inexperienced rider, but…” Boromir said dryly and Amelia made a squeak in the back of her throat.  
“Inexperienced?! And I hope it stays that way! Jesus Christ, if I had to do this for hours on end…” Boromir chuckled lowly, a deep, honest sound, but it was a short laughter.  
“If that is true then how came you to be here, in this valley? I know of no cities of men within walking distance.”  
“Okay, one, everything’s within walking distance if you try hard enough. Two, I’m just as surprised as you that I’m here, buddy.” She could imagine his confusion, but he didn’t pry and she felt slightly grateful. She didn’t feel like explaining that she was beginning to believe that she had smoked something funny and gotten high as kite, something that her youngest sibling had always been more wont to do than her. Then, she caught a glimpse of something pale moving within the trees and her head jerked around to see it again.  
“What is it?” Boromir sounded instantly on alert.  
“I thought I saw…” But then, a jovial, trilling laughter reached her ears and she saw more fair shapes running and dancing within the forest as the narrow pathway sloped downwards towards the city. She smiled a confused smile, still cautious in every assumption and impression, as they sung, in clear voices, ringing like a bubbling river and crystal bells,  
O! What are you doing,  
And where are you going?  
Your horse needs shoeing!  
The river is flowing!  
O! tra-la-la-lally  
here down in the valley!  
O! Why do you roam  
So far from your home?  
From where do you hail?  
What is your tale?  
O! tra-la-la-lally  
Tell us in the valley!  
“They’re… elves.” Amelia observed, slightly breathless. She had no idea what was going on anymore, but decided to just roll with it at that point. “And… they’re singing.” Boromir hummed in affirment and then, Amelia smiled hesitantly, as the merry song continued. “I’ve never had a welcome like that before.”  
“This is your first time in Rivendell, then?” Amelia rolled her shoulders uncomfortably at the question.  
“Yeah. First time seeing elves too. And a horse. And a guy with a weird haircut carrying around a sword. Lots of firsts in one day.” She didn’t consider whether she ought to think more on her words before she spoke them.  
“You are here for the Council, I take it?”  
“Hm?” It took a moment for Amelia to realize what he was talking about. “Oh, yeah. That’s right. Sure. The Council.”  
“And whom do you represent?” Amelia blinked in confusion.  
“Uh… me, myself and I, I suppose. No one really knows I’m here, you see.” Her laugh was forced. He didn’t inquire further or interrupt. “I suppose I… took a wrong turn somewhere.” She finished lamely. She cringed inwardly. Social skills of any kind had never been her strongest suit.  
She yelped and her arms unwillingly snaked around Boromir’s chest when the horse sped into a full gallop, albeit a slow one. She was once again reminded of her dislike for horses and realized that the elves and Boromir had managed to briefly distract her from her discomfort.  
“Did I mention that I hate riding?” She growled loudly to no one in particular, shame at her helplessness making her clench her teeth. 

Amelia could have fallen to her knees and kissed the ground below her as Boromir helped her dismount, but she didn’t get the chance, since she wobbled on her feet.  
“Oh my god.” She mumbled as she grabbed Boromir’s shoulder to steady herself. “If I die, don’t forget to feed my cat.” Boromir gave her an incredulous look as she let go of his shoulder, looked up and lost her tongue once again.  
If the city had been beautiful from a distance, it was even more so up close. The sound of silvery fountains mingled with chirping birds, as well as a distant harp, and the wind carried low, melodious chatter with it through the valley. The gentle breeze was warm, even though it looked like fall was approaching Rivendell rapidly, and it smelled of horses and something sweet that Amelia couldn’t place. White archways loomed over her head and Amelia noticed a man clad in grey robes watching them from the foot of a white stair. She and Boromir weren’t the only riders to have arrived. It seemed that some elves, tall and otherworldly, old and young at the same time, had ridden in as well and a group of stocky, bearded men that Amelia tentatively assumed were dwarves, stood separated from them, with heavy axes strapped to their backs and forked beards, mumbling amongst themselves. The discovery of yet another intricacy to what she desperately still tried to think was a vision of a dream was another blow to her stubbornness.  
Then, she stiffened and turned towards the old man watching them with a faint smile on his lips.  
“If you’ll excuse me,” Boromir looked up as he rummaged through his saddleback, “I have an ass to kick.” Amelia growled out through grit teeth and stomped over towards the elderly man, whom she had recognized as a former customer of hers. The man gave her a kind smile as she stopped in front of him, face twisted in anger and fists clenching at her sides.  
“You.” She hissed, her blue eyes blazing.  
“Me.” Gandalf answered calmly. Amelia stood silently in front of the wizard and didn’t notice that most of the elves looked at her and the dwarves were glancing her way.  
“Why?” She finally choked out through her rage. The word came out as a disbelieving whisper when she wanted it to be a shout.  
“Because,” Gandalf answered calmly, with intense eyes, “This way we might finally know how the story might have gone, had things been different.” Amelia gaped at him, at a loss for words. She spluttered.  
“Why, you dumb, stupid little piece of assholering…” She was aware that several faces looked quite shocked as vehement curses spewed from her mouth. She suspected that they had never heard something as filthy as her talk, considering how big on the niceties Boromir had been, and to hear it from a woman only made matters worse. Gandalf simply waited as she vented, clenching and unclenching her hands, as if she’d like nothing better than to strangle Gandalf with her bare hands.  
“My dear,” Gandalf finally said once she held her tongue to take a deep breath. “It was by my hand that you happened to be here, on this day, in this year, at this pivotal time for our world, yes, and do believe me when I say...”  
“No. Your world.” Amelia spat at him. “Your world. Not mine. Not ours. Yours. For fuck’s sake, I’m a Vermonter who goes skiing in the weekends and makes coffee for a living!”  
“And who happens to have substantial knowledge of events yet to come. I fear not even I know as much as you do.” Gandalf seemed like everything was already settled and decided. Amelia sputtered and cursed again before she decided to play along with his little game.  
“You stuck-up, ignorant little cunt! And now that I’m here, then what? I’ll just fix everything and go back home like a good girl? Gandalf, I could…” Her anger slowly deflated as her mind whirled on ahead of her mouth, leaving her feeling spent and drained. “I could muck things up for real. I mean, shit… I’ve watched enough Doctor Who to know that this could go all sorts of haywire.”  
“But you could save a marked man’s life.” Gandalf added lowly, so only they could hear it. Amelia gave him a sharp look.  
“You dumped me there on purpose, huh? To let me give all the boys a good first impression? Forget about it.” She raised her voice again. “Forget about it. No. Way. Send me back home. People will notice if I just run off into the blue on some mad… fairy-tale quest of yours!”  
“Not if I return you to the same evening you disappeared, in your own home. Your dear ones will be none the wiser.” Amelia gave him a skeptical look. That actually took a great deal off her shoulders, even though she’d never admit it.  
“Gandalf, I am a goddamn barista. Not even a particularly nice one. And there are hundreds of other nerds out there you could sweep along and get them back in time for dinner.” Gandalf didn’t grace her with an answer for that one and she practically growled at him. “Send me back. Now.”  
“I cannot.” He answered, finally, and Amelia narrowed her eyes.  
“Now listen here, you fucking piece of-”  
“Such a complex, powerful spell requires time, preparation and caution. Sending you home could take up to a month’s worth of preparation.” He might have just as well slapped Amelia.  
“A… month?” She mumbled to herself and looked upwards, clutching her head with her right hand. “I’m stuck in this hole for a full month? Am I supposed to just… hang out with a bunch of prissy elves for four weeks?” Then, she did what she did best under duress; take a step back, view the situation with a cold, logical perspective, examine every outcome and make a calculated decision. She rubbed her face with both of her hands and fixed Gandalf with an even stare.  
“Alright. Here is what I’m going to do. I can’t leave this place, because you’re a fucking kidnapper who thinks he knows what’s best for everyone, so I’ll stay. I won’t hesitate to speak my mind and if you think for one second that you can just… use me, you can go to hell, I won’t care. I won’t do anything to alter the course of events for now. But I’ll be nice. I’ll play along. But only because you are the only one here able to send me home again, and…”  
“We heard shouting.” A thin, light voice, male, said from the top of the stairs and Amelia was about to give it a piece of her mind when she got a good look at its owner.  
Two men, only as tall as children, with bare, hairy feet and curly hair stood atop the staircase, looking at her and Gandalf while fiddling with the hem of their shirts. One of them was slightly smaller, with lighter hair than the other. She stared, her emotional turmoil only increasing.  
“No, no, it is quite alright, my young friend. Merely getting acquainted with the young miss…” He trailed off and Amelia realized that he actually didn’t know her name.  
“Amelia. Amelia Jones.” She paused. “But don’t call me Lady. Miss is… alright, I suppose. Back home, we don’t call each other things like ‘Lady’ or ‘my lord’.”  
“Then what do you call each other?” One of the hobbits, the one with darker hair asked.  
“Well, I just gave our favorite wizard here a taste of some of the things that we call each other.” Amelia answered the question dryly. She glanced at Gandalf, narrowing her eyes angrily at him again. “Assbucket.”  
“You talk to each other like that when you are with your friends?” An elf asked loudly, sounding puzzled. Amelia shrugged and shook her head.  
“Nah. I mean, when we’re teasing or angry but it varies from person to person. If you’re looking to ask a person about foul language, I’m your girl. Not exactly a people-person.” Amelia cleared her throat. “Some swear, some don’t. Some are loud, some are quiet. I don’t really care. Some asshats do, but they don’t matter. Idiots will always be around.” Amelia noticed that Boromir was nowhere to be seen and she found that she didn’t really care. He wasn’t her friend. And she wasn’t his.  
“Meriadoc! Peregrin!” Gandalf called and the hobbits straightened their backs. “Do show our newcomer around. I’m sure our hosts will be busy attending to their other guests.”  
Amelia felt better after she had made her decision about what she was going to do. It wouldn’t help freaking out or swooning dramatically. Distancing herself from situation quickly was a skill that had served her well.  
She couldn’t help a smile of wonder at the beauty of the place as Merry and Pippin skipped down the hallways though, chattering happily amongst themselves and sometimes asking her a question, even as she continued to inwardly rage and rampage.  
“Is that the name of your homeland?” Pippin, the hobbit with the lighter hair, asked as they rounded a corner and emerged out onto a plateau with a fountain in the middle. He pointed a short finger at the word displayed on Amelia’s sweater.  
“No. Well… Kind of. It’s the name of where I come from.”  
“Hm. I’ve never heard of Veermoont.” Amelia snorted and hid her grin behind a hand.  
“Its ‘Vermont’, not… whatever you just came up with. It’s a state. And a cold one.”  
“Do you get snow?” Merry asked conversationally and Amelia nodded. A certain melancholy came over her and she realized that if she was already homesick, it would only get worse the longer she had to stay.  
“Yes. Vermont is… very cold in the winter. Sometimes we get so much that I have trouble walking to the bus stop.” She didn’t realize that the hobbits didn’t know what a bus was. “It’s, well… it’s home. And we Vermonters have a lot of stuff going on with the snow. I usually go skiing in my weekends.”  
“What’s that?” Pippin asked curiously as they settled at the edge of a fountain and Amelia spread out her large coat for them all to sit on. The hobbits seemed to quickly have forgotten Gandalf’s bidding to show her around, but Amelia also admitted that she most likely would have bolted when they started to bore her.  
“What, skiing?” Amelia had to consider how best to explain it to them. “Basically, we strap fancy floorboards to our feet and down a mountain we go, breakneck speed and no safety net!” The hobbits looked horrified and she smiled at their faces, enjoying toying with them, even as it was a petty and indecent pleasure. “It’s not so bad. I mean, accidents happen, but accidents always happen, whether you swim or run or climb, whatever. And I’ve gotten pretty good, since I’ve lived there for about two years.” The hobbits looked at each other and finally seemed to accept that she wasn’t just yanking them around.  
“Where did you live before?” Pippin asked and Amelia got caught up in talking about summer trips to London, the glow of a thousand city lights seen from a plane and the pine trees in winter. Time was an odd notion in the hidden valley, it seemed, for her sense of it seemed to have disappeared well and truly, as if Rivendell was frozen in time and cut off from the rest of the world.  
“But what about your family?” Pippin asked and Amelia had to admit that she had taken a shine to his inquisitive innocence. Amelia raised her eyebrows.  
“My parents are pretty old, so my brothers visit them a lot, to make sure they’re fine and all. My brothers, I’ve got two, they’re… well, they’re annoying. Scared my first boyfriend half to death. Kid was only seventeen. Anyways, Sebastian’s the oldest. Two years ahead of me. Tobias is 25 and… well, he’s a bit of a loose cannon. Doesn’t really know what he likes, doesn’t think about what he says until its said. And then, there’s me. The middle child.”  
“Why did your brothers scare your friend?” Merry asked in confusion and slight curiosity. Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but hesitated. Middle-Earth had to have other views on romantic entanglement than her good old Earth.  
“You know what? Ask me again in a few days or so and I’ll tell you. Gotta save some stories for later. And you… you’re from the Shire, right?”  
“Yep. Sam already misses it.” Pippin sighed and Amelia pretended to be confused, even as she inwardly sighed in exasperation at the mention of another well-known figure from her childhood.  
“Sam?”  
“Oh, a fellow hobbit who traveled here with as, along with a distant relative of mine, Frodo Baggins-“  
“Pippin!” Merry shushed him and Amelia had to rein back a smile at his attempt at secrecy. If only they knew how much knowledge she held, she thought, amused.  
Then they’d never stop pestering her with questions. She had interacted enough with her own siblings to know to never let them truly glom onto something.  
“Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.” She reassured them and leaned back, content to merely gaze at the enamoring surroundings. She had taken off her backpack when she sat down and opened it, rummaging through it. She pulled out the old book she had inadvertently brought along to what seemed like an entirely different world.  
“You brought a book along?” Merry asked curiously, and a bit puzzled, and Amelia hummed as confirmation.  
“One of my favorites. Though this copy is falling apart as it is.” It was true. The pages were no longer fastened to the spine of the book, half the pages were dogeared and Amelia’s favorite paragraphs and lines had been highlighted with varying colors. Her brothers had always recoiled in horror whenever she did such a thing, but she cared more for her books of math and science than fantasy and fiction.  
“What’s it about?” Pippin asked and Amelia frowned a bit.  
“It’s, well… difficult to explain. It’s about… prejudices and… bigotry and people being stuck in their ways. I must have read it, oh… hundreds of times by now.”  
“Then you would get along well with my brother.” Amelia looked up to see Boromir walking towards them, hands clasped on his back. He had yet to change out of his clothes and Amelia still didn’t trust him more than she trusted any random stranger.  
“What, he the bookish sort?” Amelia asked innocently, remembering the inspiring leader Faramir had represented to her. His character had always been a beloved one.  
“Yes. Very much so. Though he preferred his own fantasies to his studies.”  
“Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, if you've a ready mind…” Amelia sang to herself and Boromir shot her a confused look. She smiled a silly smile to herself. “Never mind that. And I suppose you were the terror of the White City before you could walk? Did you learn swordfighting before walking?” She teased him playfully. He didn’t smile but merely looked away from her position on the ground, along with the two hobbits, who shuffled uncomfortably, being so near the tall, imposing man. “I’ve never actually seen the White City.” She admitted and Boromir glanced back at her.  
“Neither have I!” Pippin chipped.  
“Me neither.” Merry sighed.  
“So you are not from Gondor or Rohan then. Laketown, or Dale perhaps?” Boromir thought aloud and a hobbit started jabbering before Amelia could answer.  
“No, she’s from Veermoont!”  
“It’s ‘Vermont’, Pip!”  
“Right. And it had snow and mountains and large metal birds carrying humans and, and… and skiing! She straps boards to her feet and slide down hillsides, I don’t really understand that, to be honest…” Amelia saw Boromir fighting a smile at Pippin’s enthusiasm. She allowed herself to study him, making mental notes of the things that were different from her own mental image of him before that day. His hair was darker, his face sterner and more distant, and he was both wide and tall compared to any man she knew in advance. With a frown, she looked away, but then her face cleared and she continued her train of thought fully. It was strange, to sit so casually before a man doomed to die and knowing that she would let it happen without interference, but let it happen she would. Returning to her home and her life would be a death-sentence, but it was not one she felt guilty about. Her conscience felt clean and a calmness settled over her as she looked at him again, imagining blood spotting his tunic and arrows sticking out of his broad chest.


	3. The Scent of Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty.”  
> -Mother Teresa

When Amelia received her change of clothes after her hot bath, courtesy of her overly polite hosts, she made a horrid shriek that echoed ominously in the spacy rooms.   
“My lady? Is everything alright?” A softly-spoken voice asked from the other room, where a dark-haired elf waited, ready to help if Amelia requested it.   
“This… I can’t wear this!” Amelia exclaimed loudly as she glared at the neatly folded dress. She cursed as she realized that the elves had taken her old clothes, presumably for washing, and that the dress was her only option.   
“Is it the wrong size, Lady Amelia?”  
“No, it’s not that, I just…” Amelia huffed and crossed her wet arms beneath her bared chest. She was still naked, standing on the edge of the spacious tub. “All the guys get to wear what they arrived in, why can’t I? Just some pants or something, that’s fine, I mean…”   
“My lady…” The elf, Calithileth, sounded cautious. “Anyone, and not just a Lady, should be presentable during such an important meeting-“  
“Ah, to hell with it. I can’t very well go naked, can I?” Amelia exclaimed. Then, a wicked smile crossed her face. She rubbed her hands together conspiratorially. She had always had a flair for the dramatic, but not one that she let show often. “Or I could actually go naked. Bet that would get attention.”  
“My lady!” Calithileth exclaimed, sounding surprised by her boldness, even as the overtone of her voice continued to be smooth and pleasant. Amelia wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. She couldn’t quite get it out and, she considered, starting her own feminist crusade probably wouldn’t get her anywhere.   
As it turned out, getting into the dress presented a challenge all its own.   
“How do you…” Amelia humphed and blew out an exasperated breath. “Why are there so many skirts?”   
“Allow me to help, my lady.” The elf offered again and Amelia reluctantly accepted her help. As it turned out, the dress had several layers. A white kirtle with a light blue pattern matching Amelia’s eyes had to go on first. Its sleeves went to Amelia’s wrists and it had a high, tight neckline. Amelia half-wondered whether an elf had read her mind to find her preferred style. A white, slightly transparent surcoat went over it and a belt made of silvery leaves finished it off. The outfit felt tight and ridiculous on her and to have some reassurance that she was still under it somewhere, Amelia stubbornly refused having red beeswax dapped on her lips, turned down the offered assistance with her hair and insisted on wearing her black, fingerless gloves to the meeting. The poor elf nearly fainted when Amelia bolted from the room, with the announcement that she was going barefoot ringing behind her. As she ran in her triumph, she realized that she had still had a green hairband around her wrist and she tied her hair back in a low, sloppy tail before marching on, with no shoes, winter gloves and a fine dress, feeling as though she had dressed as and was a warrior.

The Lord of Rivendell wasn’t at all like what he had been in the movie adaptations, even if Amelia could see some slight physical likeness. It was rather the feeling of slight awe, loyalty and sheer comfort that he inspired with his old eyes set in a much younger face. He instantly seemed like a man one would trust to lead one to victory or to lead a people into a prosperous future. Since Amelia couldn’t exactly place what inspired that feeling about him, she felt vaguely uncomfortable around him, but couldn’t bring herself to outright dislike him. She didn’t like that she was unable to dislike him, but, after all, that didn’t mean that she had to like him.   
“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old…” Lord Elrond began gravely, “You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor.”   
However, as the Council dragged on, Amelia found herself immensely bored, since she could mouth the men’s lines before they opened their mouths. She was seated beside a man with dark brown hair reaching his jaw, scruff on his face and dark clothes without a sigil to signify where he was from. His grey eyes shone like stars all on their own.   
However, her eyes were trained on the pedestal in the middle of the circle they sat in when a hobbit, nearly identical to how he had been portrayed in the movie that she remembered most of, carefully put a heavy gold band there. The sight of the thing was enough to ring every alarm bell in Amelia’s head instantly. It looked completely harmless and felt just so, but Amelia knew enough about it to be on her guard instantly.   
“Miss?” The man beside her mumbled lowly and Amelia realized that she had tensed up as soon as she saw it.  
“’M fine. It’s nothing.” She mumbled back and cast Boromir a suspicious glance as he rose and spoke of his dreams and reached for the ring. She was one of the few who didn’t look horrified when Gandalf stood up from his seat abruptly and shouted words in a dark language that made the sky darken and distant thunder clash. She shuffled in her seat when a loud clang came as Gimli, whose beard was much more impressive than Amelia could have ever anticipated, shattered his axe in an attempt to destroy the ring.   
“Idiot.” Amelia mumbled at him and resolved to pay more attention to what was going on around her. Unfortunately, the dwarf had good hearing.   
“Idiot?!” He exclaimed as he got to his feet with the help of his kinsmen. “You’re one to talk! I was not aware that a woman would be present at this meeting.” He looked suspicious at the mere fact of her existence and Amelia gave him an unimpressed look.   
“Neither was I, but here we are. So we’d better make the best of it, yeah?”   
“I should warn each and every one of you here,” Gandalf interrupted softly, but his voice got everyone’s attention, “That where Miss Amelia here is from, men and women are treated as absolute equals.” This seemed difficult for most to wrap their heads around, but Elrond nodded his dark-haired head calmly, as if this was old news.   
“How curious.” Someone, a greying human man, mumbled and most nodded. Amelia narrowed her eyes at him, marking him down in her mentality.   
“Don’t you think we have better things to discuss than what’s between my legs right now?” She snapped. She could have sworn she made some of those dwarves blush beneath their beards. She scowled at the ring, still gleaming prettily upon its pedestal. “Like how we’re actually going to destroy this damn thing without getting killed in the process?” She gave the pieces of shattered axe on the ground a pointed look and Gimli grumbled.   
“The ring cannot be destroyed by any weapons that we possess, Amelia Jones.” Elrond stated calmly and it took Amelia a moment to realize that the line intended as a gentle scolding to Gimli had been turned on her.   
“It is a gift.” She heard Boromir speak and turned her head to look at him with her eyes narrowed to slits. “A gift to the foes of Mordor!” He stood up, obviously passionate about what he was talking about. “Why not use this ring?!” Amelia felt an overwhelming urge to beat her head against a wall. “Long has my father, the steward of Gondor, held the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe!” He pointed an accusatory finger at each member of the Council. “Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!”   
“You cannot wield it! None of us can.” The man beside her exclaimed and Amelia took a good look at him, surprised as she realized his identity. Even though he looked like he had spent many hours in the wild, his eyes were clear, shining with determination and his face had an air of nobility about it. Unintentional, perhaps, but nevertheless it was there, hiding beneath the surface. “The ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master.”   
“Bingo.” Amelia felt that it was prudent to voice her agreement. In her mind, the guy needed some show of support. “I mean, I agree. That thing’s evil.” Amelia barely realized that, in the tale that she knew, Boromir had called the ring a gift before Gimli had shattered his axe. The order of events had changed, somehow, a thing that would later cause her much nervousness in sleepless nights. “And not just because it was made by the biggest, baddest twat of them all. It has a will all its own.”   
“And what would a ranger and a woman know of this matter?” Boromir challenged and Amelia rolled her eyes as her next words flew out of her before she could stop them.   
“More than a little steward’s son trying to impress his daddy by bringing home a pretty bauble, that’s what.” She knew instantly she had made a mistake. The other men tensed up, the elves looked shocked and worried, their serene faces marred by their emotional expressions, but the dwarves had raised their eyebrows and Gimli was the one to break the ringing silence.   
“I take back my hasty words. This one definitely has a place here.” Amelia gave him a surprised look and saw that his eyes twinkled beneath their bushy eyebrows.   
“And this is no mere ranger.” A fair-haired elf said calmly. Amelia was pleasantly surprised to see that he did not lose his temper by standing up. He simply spoke fact and he knew it. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance.” Boromir definitely didn’t look happy about that.  
“Aragorn?” He repeated as he cast a dubious glance at the man. “This… is Isildur’s heir?”   
“And heir to the throne of Gondor.” Legolas added, still utterly calm. Boromir looked incredibly skeptical, but if he was uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to how Aragorn looked. He shook his head at Legolas and bade him stop in elvish. Amelia was unable to understand the exact wording, but the intention of the short sentence was understood well enough from its tone.   
“Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king.” Boromir finished darkly as he sat down again and Amelia rubbed her forehead with a sigh.   
“Aragorn is right. We cannot use it.” Gandalf spoke.   
“You have only one choice. The ring must be destroyed.” Elrond said once again, more intently than the first time. Amelia glanced over at Frodo and saw that he was pale, with his eyes fluttering from the ring to Boromir and back again. “The ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.” His eyes looked at each member of the Council individually. “One of you must do this.”   
Silence rang out.   
“One does not simply walk into Mordor.” Boromir sighed irritably and Amelia nearly giggled at the line. No one paid her any mind. “Its black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. And the great eye is ever watchful.” He launched into a rather ominous description of the land, one that would have impressed Amelia, had her sister-in-law not spoiled it by making her watch that exact scene one too many times. “It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this.” Boromir shook his head. “It is folly.”   
“Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said?” Legolas exclaimed as he lost his patience and stood up, speaking loudly. “The ring must be destroyed!”  
“And I suppose you’ll be the one to do this?” Gimli challenged in hostility.  
“And if we fail, what then?” Boromir shouted, getting to his feet again, along with the dwarf. “What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?”   
“I will die before I see the ring in the hands of an elf!” Gimli yelled hoarsely and all hell broke loose. Aragorn, Amelia, Frodo, and Elrond were the only ones who remained seated as elves, dwarves and men got to their feet to shout nonsensical slurs at each other. Even Gandalf got up to participate in the shouting, though it was in an attempt to speak sense.   
In all the yelling, Amelia sighed loudly and looked at the ring again as Aragorn looked down and shook his head slightly. The ring, gleaming gold, lay innocently and distant whispers managed to tune out the sound of yelling in Amelia’s ears. As she looked at it, fire flashed behind her blue eyes and the stench of rotten and burning flesh and ash suddenly filled her nostrils. With a gasp she was drawn back to reality and felt Aragorn’s hand on her shoulder.   
“Are you well? You look pale.” He stated and Amelia realized she was sitting on the edge of her seat, clutching it with both her hands. She blinked and found she her breathing was quick, her palms were sweaty and muscles she didn’t even know she had had tensed up. She didn’t answer.  
“I will take it.” Frodo suddenly stood up to his full, unimpressive height. He looked nervous, but determined. “I will take the ring to Mordor. Though… I do not know the way.” Finally, the arguing ceased into silence. Gandalf looked reluctant, as if this was exactly the opposite outcome of the one he had hoped for, and yet his support for the hobbit was instant and unwavering.   
“I will help you bear it, Frodo Baggins… as long as it is yours to bear.” He rested a hand on Frodo’s shoulder and stood behind him. Finally, Aragorn stood up and spoke quietly, with everyone able to hear him.  
“If by my life or death I can protect you, I will.” He declared calmly. He came over and knelt in front of Frodo, looking into his eyes. “You have my sword.”  
“And you have my bow.” Legolas added, joining the hobbit, wizard and man where they stood.   
“And my axe.” Gimli added. Then, he glanced at the shard of axe around him. “Or what’s left of it.” He added warmly. Amelia nearly smiled, even if she was still reeling from the power of the ring. Boromir approached the forming fellowship slowly, speaking carefully.   
“You carry the fate of us all, little one. If this is indeed the will of the Council… then Gondor will see it done.”   
“Hey!” A timid voice yelled and a chubby hobbit in a cream vest darted out from behind a large, potted plant. “Mister Frodo’s not going anywhere without me.” He exclaimed as he crossed his arms and stood beside his friend.   
“No, indeed, it is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret Council and you are not.” Amelia hid her chortle with a fake cough, distracted briefly from her curious staring at Samwise Gamgee.   
“Oi! We’re coming too!” Amelia heard Merry yell and Elrond looked exasperated as two hobbits more darted past him to join the fellowship. “You’ll have to send us home, tied up in a sack to stop us!” Frodo smiled gratefully at their support, even as he seemed a tad embarrassed.   
“Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of… mission… quest thing.” Pippin added with confidence and Amelia saw him wince as Merry elbowed him. She caught Gandalf’s eye.   
“Indeed we do.” He agreed with a smile and Amelia got the distinct sense that he wanted her to join them. She shook her head slightly.   
“Well, that rules you out, Pip.” Merry chirped and Amelia actually laughed at their banter.   
“Nine companions…” Elrond mumbled and Amelia felt like something was slipping through her fingers, like sand or smoke. “So be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.” He declared grandly.  
“Right.” Pippin agreed excitedly. “Where are we going?”   
“Oh my god.” Amelia hid her smile in her hands. No one, with the exception of her brothers, had made her smile so easily before. 

The elves may have been terrible with their dresscoding, but they were excellent with their nightgowns. Simple enough not to be considered suitable as normal clothing, but still so fine that it made Amelia feel comfortable in her own skin again. Her normal pajamas certainly didn’t have long, flowing sleeves.   
But she still couldn’t sleep, no matter how fine her dress was or how comfortable her bed happened to be.   
Rivendell had a tranquil air about it that seemed beautiful in daylight, but seemed to press down on Amelia. She wanted to hug Bruno and give him a late snack, she wanted to call her parents for the first time in months and she wanted, plainly, to go back home, to cellphones and microwaves and electricity.  
Instead, she wandered randomly through the hallways of Rivendell like a ghost. She was aware that that would have consequences in the morning, but she felt that she had earned the right to sleep in.   
She rounded a corner and stopped abruptly, folding her arms around herself and suddenly humbled.   
The tall statue of a womanly figure stood behind a pedestal covered in a violet cloth. Upon it lay sharp, gleaming shards of metal and the hilt of a sword.   
Amelia approached it slowly, as if it was a dangerous animal snarling at her, and she eyed the remains of Narsil wearily. She glanced up at the empty eyes of the woman standing guard over the broken sword. Then, she looked to her right and saw Aragorn watching her calmly. He sat with a book, clad in black in silver, and his hair framed his face. His grey eyes were sharp as he looked on her, as silent as the statue standing guard over the broken blade. Oddly enough, she felt grateful that he hadn’t spoken yet.   
“I know what this is.” Amelia turned her attention back to the broken pieces, choosing her words carefully. “And the story.”  
“It is a tale told by many.” Aragorn merely answered and Amelia frowned in contemplation. She thought aloud, still choosing her words carefully, yet still voicing her thoughts, albeit cryptically.  
“I shouldn’t be here. This story, this… fairytale, it’s… it might not be real back home, but it feels pretty real now, here, in this moment.”  
“You do not believe that the defeat of Sauron transpired?” Aragorn asked, puzzled, and Amelia hesitated with her answer. He didn’t seem surprised to see her up and awake so late in the night.  
“I believe it transpired here. As to whether it actually, truly happened… I don’t know. I just don’t know. And I don’t like not knowing.”   
“So you think you’re living a dream.” Amelia was surprised at how quickly Aragorn had picked up on that. He certainly wasn’t stupid.   
“Kind of. It’s hard to explain. It’s probably best if I don’t.” Amelia bit the inside of her cheek softly. “I just… everyone here came of their own volition. Maybe Frodo and his friends came reluctantly, but… they volunteered to go to Mordor at least. I didn’t get any choice. I mean, it’s nice here, but I’m all alone, kind of, and it would have been nice to…to-”  
“To choose your fate for yourself.” Aragorn nodded slowly. “I understand.” Amelia shrugged and grimaced slightly.  
“I don’t think this is fate. I never really believe in all that rot. I mean, if all our actions are decided already… we don’t even belong to ourselves.” Amelia shook her head. “But, anyways, that’s enough philosophy for one night. I think I’ll just… go back to my room. God, I miss Bruno.”   
“Your husband?” Amelia made a loud “ha!” at Aragorn’s question.   
“God, no. I prefer me and myself, alone. I’m not good at… love. Peopling in general. Bruno’s my cat. And I’ll die alone and that’s that.”   
“Seems a lonely life to lead.” He didn’t seem to judge her for her lifestyle, a quality she had found was rare when she told people that she had no interest in marriage or children.  
“Lonely’s what I do best.” Amelia shrugged. “G’night.” She skipped away before Aragorn asked her about herself further.   
She ended up raiding a larder to pass the time.


	4. The Glow of a Radiant Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Apologizing does not always mean that you’re wrong and the other person is right. It just means that you value your relationship more than your ego.”  
> -Anonymous

It took two or three days, but Amelia finally got confident enough about Rivendell’s corridors to not ask for directions every time she left her chambers. She ended up taking a liking to reading her one book in the gardens, which were a mass of reds, yellows and orange colors, since it was the end of October. She had been summoned on the 24th of October, in the Third age of Middle-Earth and Gandalf had reluctantly told her that she could be sent home on the 24th of November, should she choose it. As if she had any other option.   
On the 28th of October, Amelia finished reading one of her books for the fifth time and leaned back on the low, white bench, feeling pretty bored. Her books were good, but not good enough to entertain her for a month.   
“I’ve seen you reading that book many times.” A flowing voice spoke as Amelia heard soft footsteps nearing her and she looked to her left. Her answer died on her lips.  
The woman in front of her had such an otherworldly, dazzling beauty that Amelia nearly asked her childishly whether she was an angel. Her dark hair flowed in waves down her back like the waterfalls of the valley, half of it held up by a net of diamonds. Her eyes shone prettier than any jewel and her fine, soft features reminded Amelia of the white statues in Rivendell. Amelia could only think of one person who had been described as having such a beauty.   
“Lady Arwen.” For the first time, Amelia remembered her manners and inclined her head towards the elf. The woman smiled and gestured to the bench with a soft hand.   
“May I?”  
“Oh, yes, please.” Amelia agreed quickly and the Lady gracefully took a seat beside Amelia. Amelia shuffled slightly in her seat and Arwen Evenstar nodded at the book.   
“You have read that one many times.”  
“Hm? Oh, yeah, it’s… an old favorite of mine. A bit boring now though. I don’t really have much to do around here.” Arwen smiled kindly and it was like the clouds parting for the sun.   
“Walk with me? I have something I wish to show you.” Amelia nodded and linked her arm with the elf when she offered, feeling pretty lucky to even have had the pleasure of meeting her.   
Whenever they passed other elves, they smiled and bowed their heads at Arwen without glancing at Amelia. She could see the reverence in their old eyes whenever the Lady of Rivendell walked by. She didn’t blame them in the least.   
“In here.” The fair lady stopped in front of a large set of white doors with a willow carved in it and solid, silver handles. Hesitantly, Amelia pushed it open and her eyes nearly rolled out of her head at the sight.  
Bookshelves, with intricate carvings of vines and runes, reached up towards the high ceiling, with many books of varying sizes and colors. Amelia understood that books were valuable, since it took time copying down a text with only pen and paper. For two seconds, she merely stood in the doorway and gaped, then turned her head towards the woman at her side and saw her looking at Amelia with a smile.   
“May I?”  
“Go ahead.” Arwen nodded and Amelia hurried into the library with a grin.   
“And it has ladders? God, this is just like the Beauty and the Beast.” She paused. “Better actually.” It was true. Ladders made the highest shelves available. Tables and chairs, with candles, parchment, ink and quills stood around and Amelia correctly guessed that she was going to be spending a lot of time in the library.

Amelia discovered that, even though she preferred to be alone, speaking with other people opened up a lot of doors. She wasn’t half as bored any longer when Arwen offered to take walks with her, she could read in the library for as long as she wanted, could take long baths in large tubs and walk out in the sunlight as October slipped away and early November took its place.   
One morning stood out particularly clearly in her memory afterwards though. When she woke up and smelled the breeze coming from the crack in the doors leading out onto the small balcony, she knew. She could barely restrain her joy when she ran out of her chambers, grabbing her coat on the way and pulling it on, over her nightgown as she rushed down a staircase and out into an open courtyard.  
She stood still there, her face turned towards the sky covered in clouds, feeling the snowflakes fall gently on her face and cover the world in white.   
“Aren’t you cold?” A small voice asked her and she turned to see Frodo standing halfway down the stairway she had rushed down herself. On his arm was a hobbit who looked like he was getting on in years, his curls the color of the snow and his face wrinkled. His eyes were locked on her and an odd expression rested on his face.   
Amelia smiled and turned her face back up, so only the sky and its snow was visible to her.  
“A bit. It reminds me of home.”   
“Snow?”   
“Yes. And the cold. Most of the year it’s just rain and sludge, but in winter…”   
“You miss it.”   
“Yes. And the people… Well. It’s no use thinking about that now. Still got a while left before I can go back home.” Frodo nodded and looked down at his large feet. The old hobbit accompanying him still hadn’t said a word. “But that’s nothing compared to how you must be feeling.”   
“I took on this burden willingly.” Frodo answered slowly and Amelia couldn’t help but think that the movies had portrayed him well.   
“Sure. And that’s great and all, but… Never mind. I didn’t mean to make you sad, talking about home and whatnot.” Frodo shook his curly-haired head and fidgeted with a button on his dark vest.  
“I don’t mind.” Amelia frowned and looked down at him. He stood beside her, staring straight into the air, seemingly deep in thought.   
“This is your first time here, then?” The old hobbit croaked. The question seemed weighted somehow and Amelia shrugged hesitantly.   
“Well, yeah. Yes.” She squinted. “Bilbo, right? Heard a lot about you.” Her face scrunched up. “Too much, probably. Forget I said anything.” Bilbo seemed as if he had been saddened by her words, but nodded and mumbled to himself. Then, rather abruptly, he patted Frodo’s shoulder and muttered a hasty word of farewell before he turned away, leaving her and Frodo alone. Amelia frowned after him, thinking his exit to be odd, but then, she turned towards Frodo and cocked her head, changing the subject.   
“You know, I think it’s high time someone said it.” She thought aloud to herself and Frodo glanced up at her. “I mean, you’re a hobbit. Generally peaceful creatures, not suited for big adventures and such, likes food. And you’ve just accepted this quest-thing to save the world and all, so… just so I know that someone’s actually said it… thanks.” She looked into his light eyes. “For taking the Ring. I know… I don’t think anyone else could have really taken it.” She had nearly revealed that she knew everyone else would have messed up, but managed to hold her tongue. “All of this… must be pretty weird for you.”   
“And for you.” Frodo added quietly and Amelia sighed.  
“You have no idea, pal.”  
“Pal?”   
“Oh, it means like… buddy or friend or something like that.” Frodo didn’t smile, but looked confused.   
“So, I am your friend?” He seemed to think it was a little sudden.  
“Remember, things are different in my world. Most people only need to have a few chats with another person to call them a friend.”   
“How peculiar.” Amelia shrugged and didn’t answer the hobbit. They merely stood in companionable silence, watching flakes of ice fall around them.   
Amelia found that dinner in the hall of stories was one of her favorite times of the week. Eternal fires were lit in hearths set in the walls and long tables with dishes of all desirable foods stood in the hall. It even had a dance floor and one wall was completely open except for some pillars holding up the roof.   
A late night, Amelia was watching Gimli, along with most of his fellows, drinking the evening away in their merriment and she cautiously took a sip from a mug of ale available to her. She nearly choked on it.   
“What in the…” She exclaimed. She didn’t see two of the dwarves glancing her way at her exclamation. An elf approached instantly, on alert.   
“Is everything fine, milady?” He asked and Amelia glanced up. Then, she recognized him and she blew out a sharp breath.   
“Is this how you Middle-Earth people drink? No offense, but this is about as intoxicating as a glass of water. If I’m going to drink, I’m going to need something stronger than this.” Lindir looked perplexed, but hurried off and Amelia’s nose twitched briefly. She had already eaten and listened to an elven bard with a harp tell the tale of Túrin, son of Húrin that evening. She rarely got drunk, but she felt that she deserved getting a little tipsy after her amount of nights in such a foreign place without going mad. As the elf finished his tale of Túrin, which had been a saga all on its own, he strummed his harp gently and started to sing, his voice striking the perfect cords.

Eärendil was a mariner  
that tarried in Arvernien;  
he built a boat of timber felled  
in Nimbrethil to journey in;  
her sails he wove of silver fair,  
of silver were her lanterns made,  
her prow was fashioned like a swan,  
and light upon her banners laid.

Amelia didn’t look at the elf as he continued the tale, as several stories had already been told. The Hall of Stories lived up to its name, she found, but then again, most of the tales and legends were well worth a listening to.   
She saw Boromir walk into the hall, his eyes darting to the boisterous dwarves to the fireplaces to her and then to an empty table. He did not look at her as he passed by her and Amelia didn’t look at him more than what was proper. She saw Aragorn stand in the doorway and for a second she thought that he would enter, but then he kept walking and Amelia was left slightly disappointed. It would have been nice to have someone to talk with and she doubted Boromir would indulge her after she insulted him at the Council.  
The thought latched onto Amelia as she drank the dark, heavy wine that Lindir had brought her. Perhaps the alcohol had softened her up, because she finally stood up, when it looked like Boromir was nearing the end of his meal. She approached him cautiously, noticing that he was not carrying his weapon, yet the horn still hung at his belt.   
“Hey.” She started softly and Boromir glanced up at her, but didn’t answer. She sighed. “This isn’t easy for me to admit, but… what I said at the Council… Look, I was out of line, okay? And I shouldn’t have talked to you like that, not after you helped me get here in the first place.” Boromir was silent and Amelia shifted on her feet. “But I’m not apologizing. I meant what I said, I just shouldn’t have said it. So… yeah. That’s that.” Amelia turned when it didn’t look like Boromir was going to speak and walked away, back to her drink. She knew that, while Boromir hadn’t refused her pathetic attempt at reconciliation, he hadn’t accepted it either.   
Amelia dumped into her seat again and rested her chin on her right hand, having lost what spurred her to ask for something stronger that night.   
Something about Boromir unsettled her, and it wasn’t his attraction to the ring, but rather the fact that the image she had had of him before arriving in Middle-Earth didn’t match the man she had actually met. The Boromir she knew had been patriotic with a warm side, prone to a bit of lashing out, but with a fierce desire to defend Gondor from any enemy. The Boromir she had met seemed to be all of that, but seemed capable of respectful behavior, far more so than how he had been portrayed, but also capable of greater arrogance. When they had met he had seemed polite, bordering on caring, but still a guarded man to be near. Then the Council happened and that image of hers went out the window, but the man at the Council would be one that Amelia would have expected to accept her admittance of her actions being wrong grandly, perhaps rub her nose in it a bit. Yet he hadn’t. Amelia didn’t understand Boromir and it was driving her insane. As she stood up and made to leave, she heard that the bard had finally finished his tale of Eärendil, and she heard the final, haunting verse as she left the hall, feeling cold despite the fires lining the walls. 

And over Middle-earth he passed  
and heard at last the weeping sore  
of women and of elven-maids  
in Elder Days, in years of yore.  
But on him mighty doom was laid,  
till Moon should fade, an orbéd star  
to pass, and tarry never more  
on Hither Shores where Mortals are;  
for ever still a herald on  
an errand that should never rest  
to bear his shining lamp afar,  
the Flammifer of Westernesse.

No, Amelia definitely didn’t like the son of Gondor one bit. 

That night she dreamt of him, when she finally felt into an uneasy slumber. Not a coherent dream, but rather glimpses of sneers, the sounds of distant shouts, demands of the Ring and the shafts of black arrows and eyes flashing like polished flint.   
When she jerked awake, a low scream dying on her lips, she cursed Boromir of Gondor for ever leading her down to the hidden valley.

The morning after, in the early hours of the dawn, as Amelia walked with her arm linked with Arwen’s, whom she had begun to slowly trust and not just admire, she reluctantly asked whether it was possible for her to get any training with a weapon. Arwen agreed readily, but was surprised to learn that Amelia had never so much as touched a sword or a bow.   
Amelia quickly found out that the blade wasn’t everything that mattered in a sword. It’s weight, its scabbard, its hilt, even its name meant something. Amelia couldn’t even lift the first one that Arwen suggested. The second and third had strange, uncomfortable hilts that either felt uncomfortable or made the blade slip out of her grasp. Arwen had an astonishing patience with her.   
“I never thought I’d actually even hold a sword.” Amelia revealed conversationally as she looked at two thin, identical blades with black hilts. “It’s been a long time since we fought with pointy things back home.”   
“You see us as old-fashioned, then?” Arwen didn’t sound judgmental in the least. Only open and with a genuine curiosity.   
“Yeah, but still… you’ve got things we don’t. Like elves… and dwarves… and kingdoms in general. And the orcs, but I don’t think that’s a plus, exactly.” Arwen looked as close to stunned as one such as her could get without losing their grace.  
“The orcs have yet to reach your lands, even after millennia?” Amelia got the feeling that she had said a bit too much and reeled to correct the fragment of damage.   
“Yeah, well… yeah. I’ve never seen one myself either. You see?” Amelia cocked an eyebrow at her. “All of this, the… Council and sword and kingdoms and Gandalf wanting to bring me on that joyride of his… I can’t. It doesn’t matter whether I want to or not. How can I allow myself to slow them down by gawking at everything we see and being utterly useless in a fight? The worst thing I ever did was to hit my brother square in the jaw when he threw my laptop in the dishwasher…” Amelia trialed off, faintly aware that Arwen looked perplexed, but understanding too.   
“I do not think Mithrandir brought you here to fight.” She slowly remarked and Amelia snorted.   
“Yeah, I know, he… he brought me for my brains, not my brawn and good thing he did, because I don’t have much of it either.”   
“This one.”   
“Huh?”   
“Try this one.” Arwen took a blade, held in its scabbard, from a rack and held it out to Amelia like an offering. She took it hesitantly from the elf and, remembering a trollhoard in ascene in a movie, pulled the blade slightly out of its scabbard to eye it carefully. She didn’t know the first thing about swords, but it looked like a fine one, the kind one would expect an elf and not a human girl to bear. Its shape reminded Amelia of a straight katana. Faint inscriptions adorned its blade and its hilt was a pale, golden color. It felt light, akin to holding a heavy stick.   
“I mean… I like it. I think I do. I mean, I can actually lift it, it feels nice to hold… not too shabby.”   
“Its name is an old one, one that I will not utter here, for it is not one the Eldar speak without grief.” Arwen told her and Amelia cocked an eyebrow at her again. “Here, we call it Aeglos, Snowthorn in the tongue of men.” Amelia nodded in approval of the name.  
“Snowthorn. I like it. What’s it’s… I mean, all you elves just love stories, so… this sword has to have one.” Arwen nodded slowly, a rueful smile resting on her face.   
“It was forged by Eöl, for his wife, whom he took by force. It was a hollow gift, for even though she knew how to fight, she did not like it and his offering brought her no joy.” Arwen sounded like she was reciting an old story and knew the lines by heart. Amelia grimaced.  
“Charmer, that one. But it’s a good sword… I think. I’m not good at… swords. But I like it.” Arwen nodded solemnly.   
“Then you shall have it.” She offered and Amelia’s eyes widened.   
“But… this thing must be worth a fortune!” She exclaimed loudly and heard another person enter the armory, which was one of the only places in Rivendell lit by torches and not natural daylight. She turned her head and saw that it was Gimli, who immediately went over to the limited supply of axes, apparently to finally get a replacement for the one he had shattered so hastily. Amelia found slight amusement in that, knowing that he would have to be truly in need to search for a weapon of elvish make.  
“Lost gold replaces itself, with time.” Arwen talked softly, as if she spoke about more than just money. “But a gift is not just itself; it is a memory when hope seems lost, of better times beneath the trees. Please, honor the valley by accepting this and hopefully carry it to a brighter fate than what awaited its first owner.”  
Amelia felt that she should ask what, exactly, had happened to the wife of Eöl, felt that she should make it clear that she wouldn’t be able to bring a sword back home, since she’d probably get arrested if she swung it around, but she was hesitant and didn’t want to seem rude and ruin her fragile new friendship, as opposed to her feelings about every other bond she had formed since October 24th.  
“Look, I’m grateful for this, you… I really am, but I’ll be going home again in a few weeks. I can’t bring a sword with me, as much as I might want to.” Arwen’s face fell ever so slightly and Amelia instantly felt bad for disappointing her. Then, she had to refrain from grimacing. Her devotion to the Evenstar surprised even herself at times.   
“What you said, about returning…” Arwen began hesitantly, as if she feared she would scare Amelia off. “Your mind is set?”   
“Yeah. I mean, yes. I can’t stay.”   
“Cannot, or will not?” The simple question made Amelia stop and frown, thinking hard.   
“I don’t know.” Amelia finally responded to the question, a bit stiffly. She hated uttering that phrase whenever she had to. Arwen nodded sagely and Amelia was glad to see that she didn’t seem to be unable to understand her.   
“And yet your mind strays to what would happen if you remained, even joined the Fellowship on their journey.” Arwen gestured to the sword. “If you are so intent on returning to a world without swords, then why request that you learn how to use one?” Amelia opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out. Arwen smiled and held up both of her hands. “Peace, my friend. I did not mean to cause you melancholy or dark thoughts and you still have time. Our scouts still report nazgûl on our outskirts. The Fellowship, however many they be in the end, will not leave before those reports cease and change for the better. Come, let us get back to the matter at hand. I would gladly help you in learning how to wield a blade.”   
Amelia nodded hesitantly and noticed that Gimli was scrutinizing her, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim room. She gave him a hard look and strode out of the room after sheathing her sword with a snap.


	5. The Stormcrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on my way.”  
> -Carl Sagan

Arwen gave Amelia much to mull about. For four days it plagued her and she sat in her rooms and in the library, shifting through books erratically, as if she might find the ideal solution in their yellowed pages, until the day the snow melted away again, leaving a barren autumn landscape in its wake. Amelia was saddened, but something changed when she saw the drops of water falling from the edge of the roof of Rivendell’s halls. Her jaw set, her back straightened and she strode through the hallways with all the burning intent of a noble lady.  
The doors to the study of Lord Elrond were opened for her and she strode inside, wearing the same clothes as the day she had arrived except for her coat, gloves and undershirt. She was fidgeting slightly with the end of her right sleeve when she stopped in front of the elf, bent over ancient papers spread over a table made of twirling glass. A pattern of misty contours had been hand-sewn onto his dark, purple robes and a silvery circlet rested on his brow. He looked, for all intents and purposes, far above Amelia’s lot in life, but she cared not as she stood in front of him.  
“Where’s Gandalf?” She asked him, without explaining her intentions or greeting him, as was customary when seeing a Lord of his status. He didn’t pay her any mind as he answered her sudden question.  
“In the mornings, he tends to watch the great sun rise and think in our gardens; he prefers solitary surroundings in this place, but would not turn away company. The rest of the time, I know not.” Amelia hummed and turned on her heel, throwing a quick word of thanks over her shoulder before soldiering on, looking like a mixture between a cold Lady and a charging berserker. The elves she passed leaned slightly away from her as she stomped past them, ignoring the looks they gave her.  
Amelia trudged into the garden, leaving deep footprints in the soft earth and she passed Sam, who looked frightened at her expression and didn’t ask her any questions about it as he continued to tend to a random batch of dying flowers. Finally, she rounded a leafless oak and found Gandalf sitting on a bench, his staff resting at his side, looking deep in thought.  
“This is your doing.” She hissed in a quiet voice, but one that left no doubt that she was angry. “This, this… I shouldn’t be thinking about whether I want to go home or not!” The wizard glanced up at her knowingly without seeming surprised as she ranted, approaching him before stomping away again, pacing in her frustration. “I’m not a fighter or a leader or even a particularly good friend or… whatever you want me to be. I’m none of that, nothing! Just… just plain, little old me. And you… you brought me here. You shouldn’t have. This is all wrong. Everything here is just… madness, an insane delusion!” Amelia swung her arms as she paced, airing her many thoughts as Gandalf merely listened and watched. “I know that for a fact, so why am I feeling this… this crazy urge to run off into the blue, chasing a fairytale?” Amelia pointed an accusatory hand at the wizard. “You did this to me.”  
Gandalf continued to look at her, calmly, with those old, blue-grey eyes of his.  
“Quite so. But in the end, the choice of what you want is not one that I have made for you. We never truly know where our hearts lie until the hour comes where we are forced to find out.” Amelia snorted at his words and ran her fingers through her hair, hanging limply around her face.  
“Yeah, well…” She didn’t find a satisfactory answer and glared at Gandalf. “Fine!” She shouted the word and heard a few birds fly from their trees in shock. “I’ll… think… about it. About this… insanity. But don’t think for one second that this means you’ve won. I’m still mad at you.” Amelia got the feeling that she was acting like a child, but she didn’t care. She stormed away from Gandalf and could have sworn he smiled at her back as she left him sitting in the gardens, alone with his thoughts.  
Under normal circumstances, Amelia would have stayed in the library for hours after such an argument, mumbling nonsensically to herself, scribbling down random things of note in the books she pulled from the tall shelves and attempting to read more than one book at once, but she was so filled with anger that she could barely read a coherent sentence, let alone an entire book. Finally, she resolved to sloppily clean up the usual mess she had made in a solitary corner of the libraryand venture to her chambers, where she dumped down on her bed, jumping when a loud clang came seemingly out of nowhere. Then, she saw that she had knocked her sword down from its place on her dresser and she gave it a dubious look before falling back on her sky blue sheets, glancing out the open doors to her balcony. Almost everything in her chambers was a white or light blue color and thus, the dark scabbard made her sword all the more out of place as it awaited a hand to wield it.  
“You stick out like a sore thumb.” Amelia mumbled at it. She felt a bit relieved when the sword didn’t answer her. She sighed loudly and turned onto her stomach, resting her chin on her folded arms. “And I suppose I do too.”  
Someone knocked softly on her doors and Amelia briefly turned her face down, so that her forehead was resting on her arms instead.  
“Yeah?” She called and the door opened with close to no sound. Amelia turned back onto her back to see Arwen standing there, her hands folded and her hair flowing down her back like a gentle river.  
“Are you ready?” She asked and Amelia blinked at her. Then, she looked at her sword and remembered that she was supposed to have her second lesson with Arwen around that time. She didn’t look forward to it; the first had left her black and blue, from head to toe. 

They sparred in an open courtyard, where anyone could see them, but Amelia didn’t mind if anyone saw how truly terrible she was. She got the feeling that if someone were to tell her truthfully that she did not have a place there, leaving the beautiful valley behind might get easier than if people insisted that she wasn’t completely useless.  
Arwen was obviously good and graceful with a blade, but more importantly, she was a patient teacher. Amelia doubted her father had approved much of her swordsmanship, but he must have been able to see that it would be useful for Arwen to know how to defend herself. She wielded two blades at once, both shorter than Amelia’s. In their first lesson, they had practiced her grip on her sword, her stance, confidence and simple parrying. Arwen opened up the second lesson by asking Amelia how well she remembered their last lesson together and practicing parrying and stance once more.  
“The stance you pick up quickly, but once you must use it, you get uncertain.” Arwen observed and Amelia wiped her sweaty face with her right hand. Despite her exhaustion, she insisted that they practice in the morning and late in the afternoon, before supper, and Arwen reluctantly agreed, voicing that she didn’t wish to go too hard on Amelia too quickly. Something had come over Amelia though, some spirit of insistent desire to learn how to properly wield a sword. Thus, once her footwork was in order, and even that took a while, she and Arwen circled each other, six days later, as the sun slunk back to the horizon and a few, early stars had begun to hang in the dark sky.  
“You don't stand still. You must be in constant motion, but do not skirt around your foe. Cover and close in. Do not limit yourself to parrying and riposting. Do not try to block. Do not attempt to be passive or stay defensive. Be audacious. Be bold.” Amelia barely avoided getting a grazed cheek and rolled her shoulders. “You should not seek to win yourself range and timing by dealing them blows and feints. Seek to displace your adversary's blows with counter-strikes timed in the middle of their own actions. Merely lashing out wildly or bashing their weapon will not do. Consider your actions, but do not contemplate them.” Arwen spoke gravely and Amelia understood that she fully believed that she was teaching Amelia techniques that could end up saving her life. Amelia got the uncomfortable feeling that she was starting to believe it too.  
It only made her try all the harder, but all it got her was a thudding wrist and Arwen’s most sincerest apologies as she bit her lip to keep herself from swearing in front the Lady of Rivendell.

Amelia woke with a weird, numb feeling in her body. She shifted, trying to find out what was wrong, despite the fact that she knew it well enough.  
The end of November was upon her.  
That day she hid in her rooms and only reluctantly parted from them to train with Arwen, who seemed to know what troubled her, but did not ask any questions. She threw herself into her lessons, focusing more intensely than usual, but she felt the eyes of Gandalf resting on her and she knew that he was watching her.  
When she trudged up to him, her feet felt strangely light, as if she was floating and she stood before him on a nameless balcony in a hidden corner of the valley.  
“One more day.” She finally talked to him, sounding irritated and tired at the same time. “And then I’ll decide.” She didn’t miss the smile, the near-smirk that spread beneath his beard and she swore lowly, beneath her breath as she walked away from him again.  
The wizard watched her leave him as his smile faded and he supported his weight on his staff, having a rare moment of doubt before he pushed on in his day, leaving his murkier thoughts behind.  
As Amelia rounded a corner, her thoughts swirling in her head like a hurricane, she didn’t look up and thus walked straight into Aragorn, who seemed to have been thinking hard himself. Aragorn staggered, but quickly steadied himself and Amelia briefly grabbed his shoulder for support before giving him an apologetic face.  
“Sorry, I wasn’t really… watching where I was going. I’ll just be on my way.” Aragorn held a hand up to her right shoulder to gently stop her from walking away.  
“Stay, please. There is much I wish to talk to you about.”  
Amelia eyed him wearily and noticed that she had tensed when he had held her back. His face was open, honest. She decided to trust him to be a gentlemen, since she knew that he had the potential and fate of a king as well.  
“Alright. Lead the way. I talk better when I’m not sitting still.” Aragorn inclined his head and walked beside her in a casual pace, back the way he came from. Amelia was thankful he didn’t offer her his arm.  
“I have yet had the chance to talk to you since the Council.” Aragorn began in a neutral tone, but not an unfriendly one. “They say you come from a strange land, that you dress like a man and have an even fouler manner of speaking.” Amelia made a low whistle.  
“Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”  
“They also say that you have a bold heart and a sharp tongue.” Amelia gave him a surprised look as he continued his pace with a peaceful face, undisturbed by the looks she gave him.  
“Yeah ,well… I hardly call throwing insults around and getting my ass handed to me bold.” She finally answered lamely.  
“You behave unusually, even for where you hail?” Aragorn seemed intrigued. Amelia shrugged and crossed her arms.  
“Not… unusually, per se. More like… oh, give me words here… it’s not bad behavior, its more like… frowned-on-by-grumpy-adults-behavior.”  
“You don’t consider yourself an adult?” Amelia snorted and shrugged again.  
“Depends on the situation, I suppose. I mean, I became a legal adult when I was eighteen, but sometimes I still feel like a giddy teenager. And it’s not like I have my ‘young-and-in-the-early-twenties-excuse’ anymore.” Amelia paused and sped the pace up a bit. Aragorn easily matched her again. “I guess I never really felt my age. I mean, I don’t know how things roll around here, but back home I ought to be married by now, maybe even have a kid or something. Instead, I’m that lone woman who lives alone in a house with her cat and no one else around.”  
They passed a large, golden tapestry depicting a grove in the summer.  
“Forgive me, but I seem unable to understand why Gandalf…” Aragorn trailed off, obviously not wanting to offer her insult and Amelia rolled her eyes.  
“You don’t understand why he thought it would be a good idea to bring me here when the most fighting I’ve ever done was with my ex.” Aragorn slowly nodded and Amelia’s upper lip curled in something that looked like disgust. “Yeah, you and me both, pal.”  
“I have yet to heard the expression ‘ex’ before.” Aragorn started again after a long moment of silence and Amelia rolled her eyes.  
“You know, an ex-boyfriend.” Aragorn still looked perplexed and Amelia gave him a wry grin as she finally found the correct words to explain herself. “A former lover.”  
“Ah.” Aragorn didn’t look like he thought ill of her and her respect for the man rose a notch. “You argued?”  
“If you can even call it that.” Amelia found it difficult to believe that she was discussing past relationships with Isildur’s heir, but found that she had been subjected to stranger things during her forced stay in an elven city. “I mean, I slapped him, he slapped me back and stormed out my door, never to be heard from again. And good riddance.” Aragorn frowned, looking puzzled and a bit angered.  
“He hit you?”  
“Not like, all the time. It’s not like it was an abusive relationship where he tied me to the bed or slapped me when I didn’t make him a sandwich. And, to be fair, I did hit him first.” She gave him a pointed look. “Absolute equals, remember? Most of the time, anyway.” Aragorn was silent, but Amelia could see that he wasn’t exactly pleased with her portrayal of her home.  
“So it was a normal discussion by your standards?”  
“Nah. It’s not like we deal out punches left and right when we’re upset. We actually almost never do that and I wasn’t dumb enough to tell my brothers. Seb would just get angry and Tobias would congratulate me.”  
“You have brothers?”  
“Mhm.”  
“And they would not fight him for you?” Amelia laughed loudly as she imagined Sebastian running after her exes, swinging a rolling pin over his head.  
“Okay, first off, not a chance in hell I would let them. Second, Tobias couldn’t win a fight against wet tissues. Third, they live in another state. We’d have to drive for hours just to see each other.”  
“Drive?”  
“Oh, like in a… I don’t know, it’s kind of like a… imagine a mode of transportation that could get you from Rivendell to Isengard in little more than a day.” Aragorn looked impressed with her poor describtion. “Anyways, I’m too proud to call my brothers just because I got a bruised cheek for a day and a half.”  
“Your homeland seems a strange place.” Amelia nodded in acceptance of that fact.  
“Yeah, well, imagine how I felt, getting dropped here without warning when I was taking a walk. Now that’s strange for you, right there.” Aragorn nodded and they continued their walk.  
“The Lady Arwen speaks highly of you.” He added randomly and Amelia gave him a dubious look.  
“What, really?”  
“She says that you offer a… fresh perspective on many things.”  
“Uh huh.” Amelia responded dryly. “And why were you spending time with Arwen, pray tell?” She couldn’t resist a grin when Aragorn glanced at her and a muscle worked in his jaw.  
“Many desire her attention.” He answered neutrally, without emotion. Amelia almost laughed at his expression and she clapped him on the shoulder.  
“Hey, don’t worry. I’m good at keeping secrets. Goodness knows I had to be, as a girl with her mother as the only other girl in the house. And I don’t judge. I mean, I’ve seen weirder couples than you two in my day.” Amelia grimaced. “You’ll never get over seeing the school mascot snog your principal, mark my words. Anyways, please don’t ask me how I know. It’ll only make you paranoid. In any event, I think I’ll just head to the library for now. I saw a great book about the line of Dúrin skulking in a corner the other day.” Amelia skipped on ahead as Aragorn stood down to stare at her as she headed off, feeling a little better after messing with the head of one of the most important people she was ever likely to meet. 

One more day turned into one more week. One more week turned into several. Amelia felt that she was stretching the hospitality of the elves beyond what she could allow herself to, but they didn’t seem to mind. At the same time, the assurance from Gandalf that he could send her back to exactly the second she had left did much to calm her anger towards him, but it did not extinguish it fully.  
On the twenty-fourth of December, Amelia finally felt that she reached a conclusive decision about her course of action, one that did not sit well with her, even though she would not be swayed from it. She had spent more than a month in a heavy debate with herself, homesickness warring with something she didn’t want to name. It was far more time than she had ever wanted to waste, and yet she felt that it had been terribly short.  
On that morning, Amelia rose with a feeling of emptiness in her chest and clad herself in all of her clothes from home. She sparred with Arwen in the early hours after breakfast, splendid as always in Lord Elrond’s house, but found that she couldn’t concentrate and Arwen agreed to end their match early. Amelia was torn between heading off to think and spending more time with Arwen, but found that her feet carried her in a random direction. She only noticed where she was going when the white, elegant architecture gave way to a hallway carved into the mountains around them. It was lit by torches and had a dwarven feel to it, despite the elegant smoothness of the rock and murals painted on the walls.  
Amelia decided to follow where her curiosity led and, when she saw the end of the hall darken, heard the sound of rushing water. She sped up her pace and emerged out into an alcove carved out of the mountain. A waterfall created a thin wall between the large alcove and the world it lay bared before and a tall pedestal stood in the middle. The early sun cut through the wall of water, illuminating the space behind it and making it glitter in golden and soft pink colors. Since it was seen it daylight, it took some time for Amelia to realize that it was exactly the same place where Elrond had read the Cirth Ithil of the map leading to Erebor in the movies. Its likeness sent her thoughts back to the Council of Elrond and she briefly wondered why before it occurred to her.  
Boromir had called the ring a gift before Gimli had shattered his axe. The movies had shown it the other way around.  
Amelia crossed her arms and rested them on the pedestal, her eyebrows drawing closer together as her face scrunched in thought.  
She had been able to mouth what the representatives of the Council said before they did themselves and that told her that she lived in the Middle-Earth adopted and portrayed by Peter Jackson. However, not everything seemed to match his version of events. The shattered axe, the way Boromir hadn’t treated her terribly when he picked her up, the Fellowship waiting for much longer than she had anticipated before leaving Rivendell, since it had looked like only a few days afterwards at most, it all pointed towards some likeness to the books.  
With a start, Amelia realized two things at once, that she had spent more than two months in Rivendell already, and that it was the 24th of December.  
It was Christmas.  
Amelia shook her head bitterly and chided herself. It was not Christmas, since Christmas didn’t exist where she was. That thought saddened her almost as much as leaving Bruno behind.  
Where had those man days spent sparring and reading gone? Amelia realized that, since her days were quite monotone, without much difference, it would seem that she had lived far fewer of them than she actually had.  
She had spent two months away from her home. It was Christmas.  
Amelia angrily wiped at her eyes when they began to grow damp and regained her composure in a matter of seconds. She stood up straight and rested her left hand on her sword, which still hung at her side after her lesson with Arwen. Arwen had, in her gentle generosity, gifted her with a belt to match its scabbard, a wide, dark belt with a solid silver buckle that Amelia suspected to be made by man and not the elves.  
“A particular reason you’re hiding in here?” A gruff voice rasped behind her and she jumped, her heartbeat taking a while to come back to normal. It was, surprisingly Gimli, resting his hands on the top of his large axe. He bore no helmet and his clothes were casual, despite the discretely hidden mail beneath it. He still didn’t trust the elves.  
“Did you follow me?” Amelia accused suspiciously, with narrowed eyes. She rested her weight on her left leg. She was usually good at knowing when someone was watching her in silence, but Gimli was quieter than she had expected. His heavy clothes ought to make notice of his coming from miles away and yet, he was able to surprise her.  
“Aye.” The dwarf nodded, his voice honest and a bit thoughtful. “I did follow you.”  
“And I suppose you wanted to talk to me and not just be a creepy stalker?” Amelia couldn’t help her hostility. She hated people even glimpsing her in a moment of weakness. Gimli gestured towards her blade and she tensed.  
“In the armory, with that elf-maiden. You spoke of staying.” Amelia blinked at him. “I’d welcome your company myself, but…”  
“You would do what now?” Amelia exclaimed loudly, over the sound of rushing water. “Seriously? I mean, thanks and all, but… you don’t even know me.” Gimli barked a loud laugh, as if he found some amusement in her declaration.  
“Aye, I don’t know you, but you are the type of person one wants to get to know.” He talked loudly, as always, and Amelia raised her eyebrows ever so slightly at him. “Besides, you’ve earned my admiration, if not my respect. Or trust.”  
“Fair enough.” Amelia gave him a grim smirk at the memory of her sharp quip in the Council. “But I don’t think you came here just to compliment me.”  
“Nay, I didn’t.” Gimli took a deep breath and straightened his back, but not like he was preparing to give a speech. More like he was attempting to relax. “You’re still undecided about whether you’d join us and that’s fair, but your time is running short.”  
“I know.”  
“However, should you choose to accompany us, you need better training.” Amelia bristled at the veiled insult to her tutor, whether it was intentional or not. “You only know how to defend yourself against swords. An axe is much different.”  
“I wouldn’t last two seconds against you.” Amelia agreed readily and the dwarf chortled.  
“Should you decide you need training from a master of the axe…” Gimli’s eyes twinkled merrily. “You need only say the word.” He turned then, with no more words to say, and Amelia blinked in surprise, her eyebrows traveling upwards.  
Gimli dwarf left her there, to brood over the latest development. The dwarf’s unexpected offer of friendship was a positive surprise to Amelia, one that brought her a calm sense of happiness, though it didn’t quell her already confusing feelings or provide her with a clearer course of action.  
Then, finally, after a longer time than merely the one she had spent in the alcove with her own thoughts for company, she straightened her back and made off towards her chambers, feeling sorry that she was going to miss the chance for a final lesson from Arwen.  
No less or more than two hours later, she tightened her belt, pulled her coat close around her and hurried towards the way out of the city of Rivendell, regret already making itself known at her decision.

Amelia only had the light of the thinly veiled moon and the stars above to guide her as she hurried out of Rivendell, with the hood of her coat pulled up around her ears, her backpack secured on her back and her sword at her hip. The sword, a whetstone and some sparse supplies were the only thing she left with that she did not already have when she came to the valley. Somewhere, in the distance, she heard the elves sing in their melodious language, but couldn’t make out the words, let alone understand them.  
She cursed her own weakness as she looked back, standing atop a narrow bridge over a bubbling river, at the valley of Imladris, where she had left her chambers neat and organized, without a hint that she had ever inhabited them.  
She got the nagging feeling that she was making the wrong decision as she turned away from the city and walked further into the night.  
She took the path leading to the left, uncertain whether it was the right one and she sped up her pace, hoping to lessen the slight pain of leaving Rivendell as quickly as possible.  
She glanced up to her right at the sound of rustling leaves and saw a fat, dark bird perched upon a thin branch, eyeing her with its round, black eyes. It cawed, once, twice and then flapped its glossy wings, making the branch it had been seated on shake as it took off and vanished from Amelia’s sight. She looked after it for a long moment, on the verge of turning back, but then she pressed on and left the elven city behind her, bathed in the light of the stars.


	6. Fellowship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If you fuel your journey on the opinions of others, you are going to run out of gas.”  
> -Joubert Botha

Amelia grudgingly admitted, on the next, cold morning, that leaving Rivendell so soon had been a mistake.   
She did not light a fire, which was also a stupid move on her part, she considered, since she woke with stiff, unfeeling fingers and lips with a sickly, purple color. Her skin was pale as ice and she felt chilled to the bone.   
She continued at a much slower pace, rubbing some feeling into her numb hands and jumping slightly with each step she took, to chase the chill from her body. As her blood warmed her, though not as much as to make her wholly comfortable, she walked among the trees, wondering why she had been so foolish as to not spend another day in Rivendell. In truth, she knew the answer, but preferred to stay grumpy as the sun began to peek out over the horizon. She had woken early, in the hours when it seems as if the world is holding its breath, awaiting the coming of the sun.   
She followed the path for two small hours until she stopped abruptly and sat down on the side of the road, on the leaves, with a sigh and her head resting on her knees, which she had drawn close to her. Doubts plagued her mind and she made a small sound of disgust at her own weakness, seeing as something to be dispelled utterly, not just pushed from her mind, to be saved for a later time.   
She waited, on the side of the road, a lone woman alone in a forest, and she wondered whether she had taken a wrong turn or been too hasty in her decision, despite her absolution not to.   
Finally, after a certain amount of hours shifting in her spot, to prevent her limbs from falling too stiff, with the occasional jumping, she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, a skill she had perfected when she hid from her brothers as a little girl. It was also made easier by how those coming towards her had to trudge through the layer of leaves beneath their feet, which made them loud and unstealthy to the alert ear. Amelia jumped to her feet, her joints popping, and attempted to look casual, zipping down the front of her coat despite the cold and adopting a bored expression.   
Frodo, Sam at his side, was the first to come into view, leading the company forwards. Gandalf was walking closely behind him and Amelia got the strong feeling Frodo still asked him whether he was going to right way. Behind Frodo came Aragorn, his eyes darting wearily about his surroundings and resting a hand on his long sword. After him came Boromir and Gimli, walking side by side, seemingly having a deep discussion and final, Legolas, whom Amelia realized was the only one she had yet to speak to of the Fellowship.   
Frodo stopped abruptly when he saw her, standing by the side of the road and Gandalf nearly tripped over him. The wizard looked at the spot the hobbit was staring at and Amelia strolled towards them, making it obvious that she wasn’t in any hurry. She did feel a tiny bit gleeful when the wizard smiled a relieved smile when he saw her.   
“My dear girl!” He greeted her, briefly lifting his staff. “It gladdens me to see you, for the elves were worried greatly when an honored guest of theirs disappeared without a trace.” He stepped around the hobbits in front of him and Amelia briefly saw the way the rest of the Fellowship was looking at her. Aragorn had a carefully schooled, neutral expression, the hobbits seemed delighted at her presence except for Frodo, who merely looked surprised, Boromir looked suspicious, Legolas had a somewhat polite face, but Gimli, Gimli was smiling at her, like he shared an old joke with her, one of those that had grown so old that it was almost forgotten and only the feeling of amusement remained.   
“Yeah, well…” Amelia mumbled awkwardly as she shook the wizards hand briefly, but firmly. He had a stronger grasp than she had expected, still firm and tight despite his many years. “Couldn’t leave you guys all alone out in the wild, could I?” The wizard’s eyes held a glint and she grimaced at him, the back of her mind noticing that it was the first time she had actually seen him wearing his pointed hat. Sometimes, she thought, she truly did notice things of absolutely no relevance. “Yeah, yeah, shut up.” Amelia scratched the back of her head as she bit her lip and looked at the rest of a Fellowship. She sighed and dropped her hand, but held her head high and didn’t break her eyes away from any of them as she met their gaze proudly. “Look, I’ll admit, I’m not a fighter like you. I actually suck pretty badly at it, but I know Gandalf didn’t bring me here for fighting. I can’t tell you why, but… I’m not useless. I swear.” Amelia didn’t sound terribly faithful in her own abilities and she was met with a heavy silence. “And I honestly couldn’t care less whether you want me to come along or not, or what you think about me, as a person, as a fighter as anything really. I’m coming. Case closed, point made, end of discussion.” She sounded far more certain of herself than she felt, but her emotions were a thing that she rarely revealed to their full extent.  
“Well, I’ll vouch for her.” Gimli declared and Amelia felt a sharp sting, but the good kind, at his welcoming words.   
“You would vouch for her, a mere stranger?” Boromir added in shamelessly, his noble face still holding a suspicious expression and his stony eyes hard as flint.   
“Well, someone has to keep you on your toes.” Amelia interrupted abruptly, once again forgetting to hold her tongue around the son of Gondor, but Gimli barked a laugh.   
“What she said.” He gestured towards her and Amelia gave him a wry smile in return. His eyes twinkled merrily.   
“I’ll vouch for her too!” Pippin chirped and even as Merry hushed him, Amelia felt grateful for his support, however insignificant it might be in the big picture.   
“I trust her as well.” Frodo spoke unexpectedly as well. “Perhaps not with my life or this burden I now bear, but I do not think she will betray us.” Amelia was surprised that Frodo would vouch for her, but realized that it wasn’t the time for being picky and silently accepted his words. There was another long moment of silence. She met Boromir’s firm eyes unflinchingly, refusing to be cowed.   
“As the ringbearer wishes.” Boromir finally declared, though the suspicion in his eyes only grew stronger. Amelia held her back straight and didn’t break her eyes away from his. Then, Frodo started walking slowly again, Gandalf and the other hobbits falling back into their usual formation. Amelia took her place behind Aragorn, who seemed to give her a tiny nod as he passed her. She didn’t acknowledge it, for she was unsure that it hadn’t merely been the wind tossing his hair and making him bend it to look properly at her, since a biting wind now rushed through the trees, making their dry leaves rattle.   
She still felt Boromir’s eyes burning into her back as she kept walking, alongside her new companions, and she held herself stiffly because of it.   
She found that, while she had never liked running, even slowly, she could walk at a fair pace for much longer. It was almost pleasant, had it not been for the cold that seemed much sharper than it had been in Rivendell and the reminder of the elven city made Amelia feel the temporary loss of her own home that much keener.   
She did not reveal her thoughts, as no one seemed to talk, as they strode through the forest, but she saw Aragorn’s swordhand jerk when a loud growl came seemingly out of nowhere. They still kept moving, but at a much slower pace, but it only lasted a few steps before Pippin muttered an apology and Amelia suddenly grinned.  
“Why, Pippin,” She exclaimed with a light voice, “Don’t tell me that you still haven’t gotten over your losing second breakfast after months without it.”   
“The larders of the elven town were well stocked.” Pippin defended himself and Amelia gave him an unimpressed look. As if it had been awoken by its fellow, Merry’s stomach growled loudly and Amelia hid her smile behind her right hand, grateful that the attention of the others was averted so they wouldn’t see her breaking the façade she had put on since her joining them. She heard Aragorn sigh lowly and Gandalf shook his head in fond irritation.   
“Yeah, well, something tells me we won’t exactly run across any restaurants.” Amelia added, schooling her expression with some difficulty and Pippin sighed wistfully. Amelia also heard Sam make a small, sad sound in the back of his throat and she rolled her eyes at them, her smile soft and quick to fade.   
Since Amelia had joined in the early afternoon, she only had to keep up with the men for a few hours before she could rest again, on the edge of the trees and she cast a dark look at the approaching landscape. Tall, grassy hills with scattered rocks and mountains. A narrow, broken pathway, the work of many feet crossing the same path, led into it and Amelia resolved to feel glad that they wouldn’t wander only on Gandalf’s memory and general sense of direction.   
Aragorn started a small, discrete fire so quickly that Amelia doubted Gandalf could have lit the wood quicker with his staff. The hobbits sat hurdled in a small clump, sharing whatever body heat they had and Gimli sat heavily on the ground, his axe resting at his side and his helmet on his knee. Boromir sat wearily, his eyes darting from each of his companions to the next and she was no exception. Her reluctant shred of respect wasn’t harmed either when he didn’t look away when she caught him looking at her. Legolas, the elven prince, stood on the edge of camp, seemingly keeping watch through some unspoken agreement between him and the rest of the group. Amelia got up, brushed her pants roughly with her hands and approached him, feeling lighter since she had dropped the weight of her backpack. The grass muffled her steps a bit, but she was well aware that he would know of her approach, even had she been more than a mile away.   
“Hey.” She started softly, still unaccustomed to not having to think about whether she would startle him or not. He didn’t turn or acknowledge her when she came up to stand beside him, joining him in gazing out into the cool evening lands. She heard the hobbits chattering among themselves and she was happy that she wasn’t the only one talking. “I realized that I never actually introduced myself properly to you. I’m Amelia… though I guess you knew that.” Legolas bent his head to her in greeting and didn’t introduce himself to her through words. Amelia didn’t feel affronted and went back to her seat in the yellowed grass.   
She heard Aragorn discussing something with Gandalf and got the feeling that she didn’t want to hear it. She ignored them and tried to tune them out completely. They soon stopped however and Amelia suddenly longed for something other than the crackling of the small fire to fill the silence, since the hobbits had gone silent too. She turned her head towards Gimli.   
“Look, I’m sorry about my… moodiness, when we last spoke. Back in Rivendell, I mean. It was just a pretty important date for me and all, so I guess I was a bit…” Amelia trailed off and the apology felt bitter, since she didn’t feel sorry in the least. After all, it was exceptionally rare for her to regret her own actions, even when she knew that her course had been the wrong one to take.   
“Your day of birth?” Gimli inquired and Amelia snorted.   
“Nah. My birthday’s late october. It was just a really big holiday, like, celebrated by the whole country. And I’m just kind of hanging out here.” Amelia shrugged.   
“What’s the holiday?” Pippin asked curiously and Amelia gave him a small, soft smile.   
“You’d like it. There’s food, and lots of it.” Pippin’s, Merry’s and Sam’s eyes brightened with interest. “Then, we spend the day with our family and give each other gifts.”   
“Sounds a lot like a nameday to me.” Merry interrupted and Amelia rolled we eyes.   
“Did I mention we drag a tree into our living room and decorate it with glass balls and glitter?” Sam looked completely lost as soon as she didn’t talk about food anymore, but she paid him no heed.   
“Well, that doesn’t sound like a nameday at all.” Pippin exclaimed with a confused frown. Amelia rolled her blue eyes and settled on her back, gazing upwards unto unfamiliar stars as her eyelids drooped from exhaustion, both of the mind and the body. Still, sleep eluded her for a while yet, even as her mind drifted and she felt soreness in her back and legs already. She cared not for it, knowing that it was bound to get worse the further she traveled.  
“Do you think she’s telling the truth? About the tree?” She faintly heard Pippin ask.  
“Nah, Pip. It’s probably just a story.” Merry answered his friend and Amelia felt her pride sting a bit as their low voices and the sound of fire faded away.

Amelia jerked away the next morning, but she couldn’t remember what she had dreamed as it faded immediately and she rubbed her eyes, still tired. She saw that Aragorn, Legolas, Gandalf and Frodo were already awake and waved a hand at them to signify that she was aware of her surroundings. She glanced over at the hobbits and felt fondness, thought she didn’t show at, at their sleeping faces and gentle snoring. On the contrary, Gimli snored like ten saws working on heavy logs and she felt impressed with herself for having slept through it at all. Then, her eyes slid over to Boromir, still resting a hand on his sword in his sleep. His face looked serious, but not tense and Amelia found that him looking relaxed made him look younger, not at peace, but very close to it.   
“Should we wake them for breakfast?” Frodo asked softly, to let his friends sleep on and Gandalf hummed.   
“We shall let them have until half the sun has risen, then eat and be on our way.” Aragorn decided. Boromir woke only half a minute later though. Amelia saw it in the way something in his face hardened and it was back to the Boromir she knew and loathed.  
The thought gave Amelia pause.   
No, she decided. Loathe was too strong a word. She tolerated his presence. Had she hated him, he would never had heard the end of it. She limited herself to the word ‘dislike’, though it didn’t sit quite right and she turned her focus back on waiting for breakfast, even though she knew it couldn’t possibly be as splendorous as what she had grown accustomed to in Rivendell.   
“Morning.” She mumbled as Boromir sat up. He ignored her, but Amelia hadn’t expected anything different from him in any event.   
Once Frodo shook his fellow hobbits awake, an endeavor that took more than a single try, breakfast quickly got underway and they ate in silence and with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Amelia found that the food had something about it, simple, fat sausages and an apple for each, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. In the end, she resolved that it was the experience of exhausted sleep under the open sky and the damp morning, as well as the general sense of adventure mixed with moodiness, that had made the food seem special, despite being nothing of the sort.   
Once they had eaten, it was remarkable how quickly they cleaned up after themselves. Pots and pans were cleaned using a minimal amount of the water they carried, the small embers left behind from their fire were stomped out, backpacks were hoisted and they were on their way, in the same formation they had walked in the day before. Amelia found her shoulders had begun to ache slightly from carrying the backpack, but reminded herself that it had once been much heavier, when she had still been in school. She was merely out of practice and she dared not complain when she was still such a fresh member of the Fellowship.   
Once again, the weight of what she was doing came to rest heavily on her shoulders and they sagged a bit.   
Joining the Fellowship had been on a whim. She knew that. She also knew that she couldn’t allow herself to change any of the coming events drastically, since she had no idea about what would happen afterwards and then, she would actually be as useless to the Fellowship as they seemed to think.   
She got an urge to glance back towards Boromir. She could hear the mail beneath his dirty tunic as he walked and she knew his hand was resting on his sword, as always, but she didn’t look at him. Not even once, as the sun rose fully above the horizon. Instead, she kept her eye resting on Gandalf and reminded herself that, technically, Boromir wasn’t the only member of the Fellowship they were going to lose.   
She could only continue and hope that she could, somehow, lessen the hurt of it.   
She quickened her pace briefly, so that she could walk beside Aragorn. He gave her a discrete, questioning look, one that she didn’t answer. She only looked away and he didn’t inquire further.   
As the hills of the landscape grew taller, the order in which they walked changed as well and as they passed two distinct boulders on the top of yet another hill, Amelia realized that they had just had the moment where each member of the Fellowship was shown, individually, emerging up on the hilltop, from the movie and she shook her head to herself. Knowing that such moments would come and actually living the moments felt vastly different, as she often got the strangest sense of déjà vu when she realized that she had just recognized something.  
Finally, they stopped up on another hill, though it was big enough to be called a small mountain, and the Fellowship rested again on the mass of rocks. Sam cooked more sausages, something that he seemed to be an adept at, Gandalf sat deep in thought, Legolas stood and stared out over the landscape and Frodo was having a low discussion with Gimli. Amelia dumped down beside Aragorn, who was smoking his pipe, and he held out the bag of pipeweed. An invitation. Amelia waved him off, scrunching her nose a bit.  
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.” Aragorn accepted her polite refusal silently and Amelia raised her eyebrows at the sound of a sharp clang. Together, Aragorn and Amelia watched Boromir attempt to give Merry and Pippin a lesson in swordfighting. Amelia gave the hobbits a fond look as Boromir corrected their stance and she was surprised to realize that she could spot the flaws in their grip and poise herself, though her technique still had more flaws than strengths.   
Then, after Merry had had his turn, Boromir swung his large sword at Pippin, gently, so that the hobbit could try to parry him. Pippin actually did alright, better than Amelia had expected his gentle self to, and she nodded sleepily to herself.   
“One, two, good!” Boromir praised, saying the numbers aloud with each swing of his broad blade.  
“Nice going, Pip.” Merry chirped in and Pippin thanked him quickly, briefly getting distracted by his best friend. Boromir didn’t see it and swung his sword again. Pippin threw up his short sword and blocked the attack, but cried out and dropped it when the sword seemingly hit his fingers.   
“Sorry!” Boromir immediately exclaimed and made a move to pick up Pippin’s sword for him, but never got so far. Pippin landed a solid kick to Boromir’s shins as the man dropped his guard and the large man lost his balance at the unexpected blow.   
“Get him!” Pippin cried and Merry joined in as they lunged at Boromir. The man completely lost all balance and fell on his back, his surprised expression not an uncomfortable one. “For the Shire!”  
“Hold him down, Pippin!” Merry added as they climbed all over him, preventing him from getting back up and Boromir ruffled their curls, a deep laugh coming from him as well. Amelia smiled at the sight, on the verge of laughter herself and saw Aragorn grin at the sight as well. He got up and approached them, while Amelia leaned back, content to watch the show unfold, enjoying the free entertainment.   
“Gentlemen, please…” Aragorn began, but even he was no match for the high-spirited halflings. In a coordinated effort, they both grabbed one of his legs each and yanked at them. Aragorn fell heavily on his back, the air knocked out of his lungs and, finally, the dam burst and Amelia laughed shamelessly and loudly at the sight of the two mighty men bested by two overly eager hobbits. She noticed Boromir looked at her and smiled brightly at him, his expression still a merry one, and it took her a second to realize why both the humans, elf and Frodo were looking at her while Pippin and Merry continued their harmless assault.   
It was probably the first time they had heard her honestly laugh.   
She didn’t care about their surprise. She only cared about the bright moment that Merry and Pippin had brought into her messy life.   
“What’s that?” She heard Frodo or Sam ask, she wasn’t sure which one, and her grin slowly died.   
“Nothing, it’s just a cloud.” Gimli huffed and with a jerk, Amelia realized what had happened after the hobbits had wrestled with Boromir and Aragorn.   
“Hide!” She exclaimed and Gimli chuckled at her, though Aragorn frowned at her from his position on the ground.   
“From a cloud?”   
“It’s moving against the wind.” Legolas observed with a frown and Amelia sprang to her feet as she looked at the dark mass approaching them distantly on the sky.   
“Crebain from Dunland!” Gandalf exclaimed. That got Gimli’s attention. “Hide!”  
“Oh, sure, when the wizard tells you to hide, you all do as he says, but no, no one listens to the only girl around…” Amelia grumped as the Fellowship scrambled for cover and she ended up sharing a space beneath two large boulders, held up by each other, with Legolas and Frodo. Heather grew between the rocks, shielding them well, but Amelia saw that remains from a fire, as well as most of their supplies and Pippin’s dagger still lay out in the open.  
The massive swarm of screeching birds was upon them as they pressed themselves down amidst the rocks, hoping and praying each that they wouldn’t be spotted. She couldn’t hear Legolas breathe, though he sat close by her, and she and Frodo grasped her left and his right arm tightly together, both grateful for the silent support. Finally, the flock of black birds turned and flew off, cawing to each other, their shrill echoes being cast back at the Fellowship even as the birds were out of their sight.  
Member by member, the Fellowship came out into the open, silently staring and scowling at the blue sky.   
“Bird spies.” Amelia’s voice sounded disbelieving, even to her own ears. “Well, we sure don’t have that at home.”   
“You knew.” Legolas spoke, sounding slightly accusatory. “About them, that they approached us. Why didn’t you say it?” Silence fell as each member of the Fellowship looked at her and Amelia twitched as she was the sudden object of all attention, locking eyes with Gandalf.   
“I messed up.” She admitted, finding it difficult. “I should have told you. Yeah, I knew they were coming.” Gandalf gave her a warning look, one that she ignored. “And I got distracted.” Amelia swallowed her pride. “Sorry.”   
“How did you know?” Aragorn asked calmly, withholding his immediate judgment. Amelia grimaced slightly, attempting to school her expression.   
“I knew they would come and I… kind of knew where, but not when. Didn’t know the… day.” She sounded pathetic and she knew it well enough, though she’d never be so foolish as to verbally admit it. “Look, if I really told you how I knew, you’d throw me in the loony bin and I really don’t fancy you guys thinking I’m crazy, but I do know about certain… things.”   
“You can read the future?” Pippin exclaimed excitedly and Amelia shook her head incredulously.  
“No, I don’t have some… mystical foresight and I can’t read the future. I just know.”  
“Oh, for goodness sake, if you continue, you might as well tell them all and be done with it!” Gandalf cried and Amelia stared at him.   
“What, for real?” He didn’t answer and she groaned. “Fine, but I’ll talk on the move, because I really don’t think it’s a good idea for us to hang around here.”   
“Agreed.” Gandalf nodded and gestured up towards the high peaks around them. “We must pass through Caradhras.” Gimli grumbled something and Boromir frowned.  
“And what of the gap of Rohan?” He asked.   
“That brings us too close to Isengard.” Aragorn answered him and Amelia twitched.   
“Wait.” Surprisingly, they all did and looked at her. She shifted on her feet. “I can tell you something about the pass, to prove that I’m telling the truth.” No one interrupted her and she took a deep breath, unable to believe herself. “The pass, the mountain, its… we won’t make it through there if we try. We’ll have to turn back.”   
“The mines of Moria would welcome us!” Gimli insisted again and Gandalf’s face hardened.   
“I would only pass through that place had I no other choice.” He retorted and Gimli huffed at him, turning away.   
“Then we shall try the pass,” Aragorn spoke, “And keep Amelia’s words in mind along the way.” Amelia rolled her eyes, but was relieved as the tension dissipated, leaving only determination, along with a bit of uncertainty, even as the Fellowship gave her odd looks as she hoisted her backpack back up on her shoulder. She ignored them all, keeping an aloof expression in place as she turned towards the imposing mountains peaks rising to meet them.


	7. Down From The Top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And since we’ve got no place to go,  
> Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”  
> -Sammy Cahn

As it turned out, walking up a mountain was no easy feat for anyone.  
Gandalf led the way, creating a trail for the others to follow, and Amelia walked being Gimli and the hobbits, to ensure that they didn't drown in the tall snow, which went up to their necks. Amelia felt the cold sunlight keenly as she nearly stumbled and pulled her coat closer around her, though her legs still shook beneath her from the intense cold.  
"Be careful, lass." Gimli called back and she snorted at him, still keeping her attitude as unaffected as possible.  
"Please. I'm from Vermont. If there's two things I know, its mountains and snow." Amelia found that, while the hobbits looked freezing, she only found the air intensely cool herself and not as deathly cold as they seemed to. "I guess I've built up a sort of immunity to the cold." She smiled wistfully at the mountains around her. "I wish I had my skis."  
"Your skis?" Legolas questioned. Amelia saw, in a surge of jealousy, how his feet didn't sink into the snow and he walked on it, beside Gandalf's trail, as easily as walking on the earth.  
"They're narrow boards!" Pippin chirped from up ahead. "You strap them to your feet and go down mountains! But it only works if there's snow, since you get stuck in the mud." Legolas shook his head in disbelief, fascination and interest spreading on his face, but she ignored him. Then, a predatory smile spread on her face as she looked at the back of the hobbits. The layer of snow ceased its height, began to only reach their thighs and Amelia seized her opportunity.  
A soft snowball, expertly made, hit Merry's back and he jumped, twisting in mid-air to survey his challenger. Amelia was whistling innocently, looking up towards the clear sky, but Merry was far from fooled by her overacted display of innocence.  
"Get her!" He shouted immediately and Pippin joined in with great enthusiasm.  
Amelia found that, while she had had much practice with her brothers whenever they visited in winter, the hobbits were worthy adversaries. She heard Gimli make an affronted exclamation as she used his wide shoulders as a stepping stone, launching herself high up, into the air and raining snowballs down upon the hobbits. However, their stubbornness won out in the end and Amelia had to ruffle melting snowflakes out of her messy, brown hair, which she realized she hadn't washed in several days and were more tangles than locks.  
"I yield!" She gasped as Merry prepared another round of snowballs with a grin, his earlier dissatisfaction with their surroundings having vanished in the face of what fun could be done with it. "I yield, I yield. God, you could give even Tobias a run for his money." The hobbits looked puzzled, but accepted her surrender as graciously as they were able without bursting into peals of laughter yet again.  
"Hobbits." She heard Gandalf mutter and she made a rude gesture at his back. She heard the hobbits gasp and stifle their giggling and she gave them a playful wink.  
"Skiing isn't the only thing we do in Vermont. We've found lots of ways to keep warm." She grimaced playfully at the insinuation, then heaved a sigh and looked away. "What I wouldn't give for my armchair and a Starbucks right now…" Despite her melancholy, she pressed on, content with walking among the hobbits and answering their seemingly endless questions about 'Veermoont'. She had begun to suspect that Pippin only pronounced it that way for old times' sake.  
She found that she didn't really mind.  
Then, she heard a sharp gasp and turned to see Frodo, who had at one point joined in their revelry at Pippin's repeated urging, but quickly yielded, fumbling at his chest where the ring was supposed to be. She immediately looked towards Boromir, who was already bending down to pick up the ring by its chain and she clenched her teeth. He was looking at it as if it was of immense interest to him and not just a piece of golden jewelry, as if it was tempting him with all that he wanted in life.  
"Boromir." Aragorn said lowly, with a hint of warning in his voice. Boromir didn't seem to hear.  
"It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing…" He muttered to himself as he held the ring up in front of his face and Amelia sighed at him. "Such a little thing…" He began reaching out for it.  
"Boromir!" Aragorn snapped and the man's gaze snapped to him, jerked out of his reverie. "Give the ring to Frodo." Slowly, the gondorian approached the hobbit, holding out the ring.  
"As you wish." He began to smile as the hobbit snatched the ring out of his gloved hand and hastily put it around his neck. "I care not." He ruffled Frodo's dark curls, but the gesture seemed derogatory, not like when the others did it to the hobbits. Boromir turned away and Amelia glared daggers at him as he continued his trek in the snow without looking back.  
Suddenly, she didn't feel much like playing anymore.

"Oh, give it up, will you?" Amelia shouted over the howling wind as Boromir and Aragorn attempted to light a fire together, but failed miserably. The sky had darkened some short hours before dinnertime and a storm of snow had been upon them, with sharp gusts of wind and whirling amounts of snowflakes. "You're never going to light a fire in this!"  
"Ever the optimist." Legolas quipped calmly and Amelia glared at him.  
"I've lived in Vermont for two years, in a cold, freezing house and even I think that lighting a fire is hopeless!" Amelia conveniently forgot about the part where she'd never actually tried to start a fire.  
"I agree with Miss Jones." Gandalf voiced his opinion reluctantly, as if he feared it would cause Amelia harm. His voice was hard to hear over the storm raging around them, but it had become almost second-nature for the Fellowship to strain to hear whatever he said, no matter the circumstances.  
"As do I." If Amelia hadn't been shooting glances at Boromir she wouldn't have seen his mouth move with the words and never believed that it was him who had spoken. Aragorn nodded reluctantly, but continued to try, even though they had agreed that it was hopeless. Amelia gaped at Boromir, but then frowned to herself. She reminded herself that Boromir was not her enemy, though there was an amount of animosity between them. If he found something she said sensible, though she doubted there would be many of those moments, he wasn't the type to keep it to himself out of spite. On that point, he was better than her.  
"I miss the Shire." Pippin whined and Merry hushed him.  
"Yes, but let us not speak of what we miss, for it will only make the parting be felt that much keener." Frodo calmed him and Amelia had to admire the hobbit for a moment. He certainly didn't seem as prone to melancholy as the Frodo portrayed by Peter Jackson, but he did have a certain manner about him, a way of speaking in a grander way than his fellow halflings, that made him stand out.  
"Well said." Amelia turned away from the others and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She thought she heard a distant howl that didn't sound like the wind, but she couldn't be sure.  
"Gandalf," She heard Boromir say loudly, to ensure that the entire Fellowship heard him, "We cannot continue along this road." Amelia turned back to look at him.  
"We have no other option." Gandalf answered reluctantly.  
"This will be the death of the hobbits!" Boromir insisted. Gandalf heaved a heavy sigh and clutched the bridge of his nose.  
"Dude, we might not get along, but you're right about this one." Amelia chirped. Boromir didn't look like he understood the words she used, other than the fact than she was agreeing with him.  
"If we cannot go over the mountain, let us go under it!" Gimli exclaimed exasperatedly and Amelia barely kept a wince away when she remembered what lurked in the darkness of that place, tempted to change opinion at the reminder.  
"Let the ringbearer decide." Gandalf finally said, after a pregnant pause and Amelia stared at him with huge eyes. It hit her like a battering ram that, though his words were the same, she had once again managed to make a mess of when and how things were supposed to happen. It was night and they were huddled beneath and outcropping of stone, the wind howling eerily around them, that provided poor shelter from the storm of snow that seemed to have appeared out of thin air.  
Frodo looked horrified that the decision had been dumped on him. Amelia felt a pang of sympathy for the little guy as he rubbed his hands nervously against each other, trying to bring some heat back into them.  
"We'll go through the mines." He finally decided, though he didn't look pleased at contradicting Gandalf, the unofficial leader of the group. The wizard slumped, though Gimli looked pretty happy about the verdict.  
"So be it." Gandalf sighed and leaned on his staff as he stood. Amelia felt a feeling of calm, but reluctant acceptance settle into her body. They were going to Moria. Events would transpire there and…  
An icy feeling settled in her heart. Gandalf had admitted that even he did not know as much of what would happen as she did. If she did not warn him, she would have stood by and let him die without interfering, even though she held the power. His death would at least be partially on her, no matter what would have happened without her presence. She had felt no regret when she thought that she would watch from the sidelines as Boromir met his end, but her feelings about Gandalf the Grey were another matter.  
She could thus not allow herself to reveal the full extent of her knowledge to the rest of the Fellowship. They would know that she was to blame just as well as she would. Amelia could come up with several excuses as to why she shouldn't tell them, but refused to acknowledge what she knew to be the truth.  
Amelia Jones was truly afraid, perhaps for the first time in her life. Not nervous, as she had been before her exams or irate, as she became before each vaccine she had ever had. True fear rushed through her limbs and in that moment, she knew that she had never really been afraid before, shielded as she had been in her comfortable life in her comfortable world.  
She helped Sam to his feet and stayed close to the hobbits as they went back the way they came, feeling an irrational urge to stay with the closest friends she had in Middle-Earth.  
Then, it hit her full force, as she shielded her face from the bitter, cold gusts of wind. She could count the number of friends she had left on her own two hands. The thought made her consider who she actually considered her friends. The four hobbits she was fond of, Merry and Pippin the most, and Gimli, of course, whom she had formed a gruff, honest relationship with. She reluctantly admitted to herself that Gandalf was a friend of hers, despite her still being mad at him for bringing her into Middle-Earth at all. She would have liked to consider Aragorn her friend, but felt that they still hadn't moved beyond the point of casual acquaintances. Arwen was a close friend of hers, but she had remained in Rivendell. Still, she counted. Boromir, she thought, was an ass and she'd hardly talked to Legolas at all. She made a mental note to change that in the near future, as she helped Sam down a high, slippery ledge of stone.  
That made a total of seven friends in all of Arda.  
Amelia told herself that she didn't care, that she had never been the type to make a lot of friends and managed to convince herself at last after what had seemed like an eternity of walking and they had reached the end of their descent. They were all sopping wet, the snow caught in their hair and clothes melting quickly when away from Caradhras. Doubt gnawed at her yet again and she was glad when the Fellowship settled for an exhausted rest in the wet grass without even setting up camp. However, though she was resting, she couldn't fall asleep. Her mind refused to let her, though she was aching and exhausted. At last, she resolved to letting herself stay awake for a little while yet before attempting to sleep again and sat up, rubbing her face. She used her backpack as a pillow, mindful of anything breakable inside of it, and rarely took off her coat. Falling asleep took her longer on the road because she had gotten used to the luxurious standards of Imladris. Any other reasons than that, she refused to think of.  
She felt a pair of eyes resting on her and she turned her head to see Legolas watching her in the darkness, his pale hair shining like a beacon in the light of the stars, clearly visible through the snow that still fell harshly around them. That was another thing unlike her own home; the stars seemed much clearer and brighter.  
"What troubles you?" He asked her as he fiddled with an arrow in his hands, but with a purpose behind it, one that Amelia couldn't decipher. He seemed quite casual, walking atop the snowbanks as if they were the solid ground below them.  
"Lots of things." She responded evasively, but loudly, attempting not to disturb the rest of the Fellowship around her, but shouting was necessary in the harsh weather. "Mostly the potential end of the world and what the heck I'm even doing here, but… well." She finished, having no lust for conversation, despite her wish to know the elf better.  
"You have a heavy heart." Legolas continued, his eyes intense. "Why would you not share this burden with others?" Amelia got the strange feeling that he was talking about more than just telling the Fellowship the truth. She swallowed.  
"I don't know…" She blew out a harsh breath. "I don't know if I'm… good at it. Friendshipping. Familying. Shoot, I mean, every relationship I've ever had, I've felt like… like I was kidding myself, you know? That I wasn't doing it right." The admission made her feel vulnerable and she willed her defenses to go up again, to let her honesty fade. "Anyways, I suppose that doesn't matter anymore."  
"You have had many… relationships?" Amelia felt that he was getting a little too personal for comfort and she stiffened slightly.  
"Not like that, I…" She fumbled for words. "I mean, I don't just… sleep around, okay? I mean yeah, I've been in committed relationships, nothing out of the ordinary. I get it with you elves, lifelong love and all that, but… sometimes, it just doesn't work like that for us common mortals. Sometimes, you… you just…" Amelia lost her sense of direction in her outburst and grimaced.  
"Forgive me." Legolas apologized. "I did not mean to insinuate…"  
"No, no, I'm… I'm just tired. And that was pretty rude of me. Our customs are pretty… well, they'd seem pretty weird to you guys and I got my fair share of odd looks back in Rivendell. I mean, this one idiot actually assumed that I was married." She heard a stifled snort come from the other side of their hasty camp and could have sworn she saw a faint smile resting on Aragorn's face, though his eyes were closed. He was listening in. "As if that would ever happen. Right now, I am in a deep and loving relationship with my one true love." Legolas gave her a slightly curious look. "My cat." The elf burst into low, melodious laughter, a beautiful sound in the night. "But I'm cheating on him by having a passionate affair with coffee and mathematics, so hush hush about it, yeah?" The elf smiled warmly at her and stuck his arrow back in his quiver.  
"You enjoy mathematics, then?" Amelia's eyes lit up and a faraway smile bloomed across her face, the freezing snow around her momentarily forgotten.  
"Damn straight, I do! I mean…" She sighed a happy sigh to herself. "I just love it. I always have. Words are mush, you know, so mathematics, they're… there, constant, logical. Nothing mystical or wondrous, just… there. There are rules and the rules can't be bent and that's… pretty nice, in a world where almost everyone just seems to think that rules are made to be broken." She grinned at him. "I bet you all I own that any math you can come up with, I can solve in less than a day. And I'll enjoy it." Legolas raised his dark eyebrows and his mouth curled upwards again.  
"Then I shall ever hope to see you do so, Amelia Jones of Vermont." He spoke the name of the state fluently, flawlessly. "It will be a pleasure to have another matter to think of and to hope for, one not concerned with all that is ominous in the world." Amelia wished she had a mug of ale she could raise at him in a toast.  
"Great. Awesome. I mean, math, it's gonna be hard, without anything to write on, but, well, I'll make do with what I have. Just know that I've got a bunch of old, greek men backing me up and Pythagoras has yet to fail me even once." And with those confusing words spoken, Amelia soldiered onwards, down the steep slopes od Caradhras.

"Alright, alright, I've got one." Amelia giggled to herself at her own ingenuity of the joke she was about to let loose. "What do the elves call their friends it they live by the sea?" Gimli hummed and stroked his red beard. Amelia was walking beside him and they both found much merriment in harmless jabs at the elves. Legolas didn't seem to mind, as his eyes had even twinkled in amusement at a particularly good one.  
"Alright, lass, you've got me tongue-tied. Out with it." Gimli sighed dramatically and Amelia smirked down at him.  
"Water-mellons." Gimli made a loud bark of laughter and Legolas shook his fair head in exasperation.  
"I don't get it." She heard Merry mumble to Pippin, who voiced his agreement.  
"Well, I can make one about hobbits as well. Just give me a moment here." Amelia thought for a minute or two, humming along the way, before she smirked and asked, as they walked along the darkening path they day after they had let Caradhras defeat them. "Why are most hobbits good guys?"  
"Well, I'd say that that's due to their wonderful concept of second breakfast." Gimli answered merrily, grinning up at her, with his axe slung over his shoulder and a hand on the handle.  
"It's because they don't look down on people!" Pippin laughed at that one and Merry mustered a grin. Sam seemed a bit confused, but not so much that he was uncomfortable and Frodo smiled a small smile at Amelia, one she returned fully.  
"You laugh more." Legolas observed and Amelia blinked at him. Her good mood was something that she also enjoyed, since it seemed to have a will and life all its own.  
"Well, my cat has an awful sense of humor. He didn't give me much to laugh at. Besides, all these little people remind me of way back when, you know, my own siblings." Legolas nodded sagely, but his words had startled Amelia and she turned her attention towards other matters. "An, I mean, bad puns is kind of a forced skill to have in your arsenal in high school, college, whatever. I'm pretty good at making people not want to spend time with me that way and rightly so, since I've gone to school most of my life."  
"Then you have my utmost sympathy." Boromir joined in and Amelia found that she wouldn't turn his company away, as long as he behaved himself in her eyes. Amelia whined melodramatically.  
"I know, I know, I have been traumatized beyond all reason!" She exclaimed and Sam looked horrified for a moment. "Seven hours a day, filled with nothing but studying and reading and socializing and..."  
"Seen hours?" Boromir exclaimed in disbelief and Amelia raised her eyebrows at him. "I had tutors myself as a boy, but they never taught me more than three hours a day." Amelia whistled.  
"Then you must have had a lot of free time on your hands." She thought aloud. Then, she frowned. "Why are you looking at me like that?"  
"Here, only the rich and the noble get many lessons." Legolas spoke and Amelia felt grateful for the clarification. He seemed to grasp the workings of her home quicker than any other she had met so far. "Yet another thing of difference."  
"Yeah, well, I started school when I was…" Amelia pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, thinking hard. "Well, it depends on your definition of school. I'd say, around, what, five years old? I graduated when I was twenty-two, almost twenty-three." Boromir looked impressed and Amelia felt satisfaction at his expression. "That's seventeen, almost eighteen years of school. Lucky me." Amelia rolled her eyes before she continued, albeit begrudgingly. "I'll admit, it does have its advantages. I read very well and math has always been a forte of mine. Never really cared much for history or chemistry and whatever. I mean, it was just kind of there." She shrugged and trudged on, aware of her companions watching her with something that could have been awe. "Besides, as I said, Gandalf brought me here for my brains. Now you know why I've got so much of it."  
"Still… must have been boring." Merry chirped and Amelia groaned.  
"Buddy, you have no idea. But enough about me." She pursed her lips. "Why don't you tell me about the Shire?" The faces of Merry and Pippin brightened and they spoke over each other, of green hills, clear blue skies, fields of crops and second breakfast. She glanced at Aragorn, saw him smiling at her and returned it, somehow feeling like that small gesture got her another friend in Middle-Earth.  
"And then… then there's the pipeweed!" Pippin exclaimed.  
"Oh, what I wouldn't give to sit outside the Green Dragon, smoking my pipe in the dusk!" Merry sighed and Amelia gave him a soft look.  
"I'd like to see it. I really, really would." She talked without thinking and the hobbits jumped in excitement, nodding.  
"Then we can take you there! To see the Shire, of course." Merry promised.  
"Only after all of this is well and done though." Pippin added with a decisive nod and Amelia's smile died.  
"Well, I can't." She came close to snapping and the hobbits gave her a strange, hurt look.  
"Why not?"  
"I just can't." Amelia snapped then and turned away sorrowfully, damning Gandalf as she glared daggers at his back, with the feeling that she had just crashed and burned flickering inside of her. She stumbled with her mind distracted and her foot twisted painfully as she fell forwards with a grunt, landing on the hard ground. She swore crudely and felt a hand resting on her shoulder. Her right foot throbbed heavily.  
"Are you alright?" Aragorn asked with concern across his face and, for the first time, Amelia felt like she was going to start blubbering. Instead, she smiled and nodded.  
"Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about that." Amelia glanced back at the hobbits, willing her apology to extend to them as well and Pippin nodded at her, already seeming to have forgotten about her aggressiveness. Aragorn pulled her up and she winced as she put her weight on her right foot. Aragorn raised his eyebrows questioningly at her and she shook her head. "It's nothing. I'm just a bit sore." Amelia grit her teeth and took a trying step, then another and fell into a walk beside Gimli once again, though this time it was in heavy silence, even as pain flared up through her right leg with each forceful step she took.


	8. Glow In The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Let there be no inscription upon my tomb; let no man write my epitaph: no man can write my epitaph.”  
> -Robert Emmet

Amelia bore her pain valiantly, nearly tripped on it twice, and felt like singing in relief when the enormous, dark gates of Moria finally took shape ahead of them. She was in too much pain to be impressed by their intimidating shape, sheer size and dark forebodingness, but refused to acknowledge it, even as her face grew as pale as had it been cast in cold marble.   
She didn’t stay around to see Gandalf attempt to open the doors, as her blood roared in her ears and she dumped down on her rock, resting her head in her hands and breathing heavily.   
“You look exhausted.” Aragorn’s voice came out of nowhere and Amelia jerked her head up to see him looming her over, a frown on his features. She mustered up a brave front, obstinately refusing to let others see what she perceived as weakness on her part, even if it would benefit her in the end.   
“Well, I am.” She forced the words out and made them seem light, but Aragorn was not fooled.   
“Boot.” He mumbled, though quite clearly, as he knelt and Amelia got the feeling that there was no arguing with him. She reluctantly pulled the black boot off her foot, though each wiggle made her want to beat her head against a wall to distract herself from the pain of it, and finally, Aragorn pulled off her sock to see her foot beneath it. At the sight, he mumbled an elven curse lowly to himself.   
“You’ve been walking on this for hours.” He mumbled, pulling forth a pouch from his belt.   
“You don’t say?” Amelia’s ankle was swollen to the point where it looked like she was wearing a thick sock beneath her skin. It had begun to bruise and Aragorn gave her a dark look.   
“Why would you keep this from us?” Amelia blew out a harsh breath through her nose.   
“Why do you think?” She winced as he dabbed something cool and numbing on her foot, though it felt good as the pain faded to a dull, constant thumping. “I’m the weak link here. The girl in a group of men. I don’t like feeling… I mean, I don’t want you to… Well, I’m enough of a liability as it is. I shouldn’t even be here.”  
“So you hid your injury.” Aragorn sounded immensely unhappy, but not unkind either, at the same time. “Have you had the thought that we travel with four hobbits and you’d most likely best them in a swordfight?” Amelia blinked at him and he sighed lowly. “You may not be a strong warrior… but you have a strength about you.” Amelia saw Legolas and Boromir looking their way and she avoided their eyes. “You have a wry wit and some skill with a sword, even if you are still a beginner.” Amelia shook her head.   
“You don’t get it.” He didn’t answer and managed to produce a roll of bandages. Amelia resisted the urge to roll her blue eyes. Her best conclusion about him so far had been that the man was a walking hospital.   
“You have an injury?” Legolas approached them, as graceful as ever, and Amelia looked away from him.   
“Normally, I would forbid you to walk on your foot…” Aragorn began and Amelia glared at him.   
“But we’re nowhere near ‘normal’ at the moment. And I’ve been walking on it this afternoon, I can do it again.” Aragorn didn’t look happy with her, but couldn’t find fault with her logic, even if it was crude and basic.   
“We will enter the mine soon enough.” He answered instead and Amelia winced. Though she knew what awaited the others in the darkness, she had no guarantee that she herself would make it through in one piece, but she knew that she felt no worse about that than the rest of the Fellowship and refused to let her fear shine through.   
“Yeah, and that’s gonna be so great.” She heard Gandalf attempt another elven password. “Because it’s real cheery in there.”   
“What do you know?” Aragorn’s eyes seemed to pierce her and she felt momentarily stunned by the abrupt question. She reminded herself, once again, that the people of Middle-Earth were not as slow as she thought them to be.   
“Too much.” She glanced over at where the door was supposed to be again. She fiddled nervously with the ends of her sleeves. “Look, I might not be able to tell you… everything, but… the mine, it’s… it’s dangerous. Poor Gimli. Don’t tell him I said that.” She heard the wet sound of something being thrown into the water and she gulped.   
“Has some ill come to Moria?” Legolas asked her and she nodded, slowly, her eyes still resting on Pippin.   
“I guess. Though it’s not just ‘some’ ill, it’s, well… pretty bad, and someone make him stop throwing rocks into the water!” She hissed, her nerves getting the better of her at last, and Sam grabbed Pippin’s arm, just as he was about to throw another rock into the water. She shuddered.   
“Water-mellons!” She heard Frodo suddenly shout and her eyes snapped to him, her eyebrows confusedly knitting together.   
“You think about elven jokes now, lad?” Gimli exclaimed incredulously and Frodo shook his head.   
“No, no, it’s a riddle… the elvish word for friend, it’s…”   
“Mellon.” Gandalf’s voice was deep and resonating and, at the exact second the word had left his mouth as he realized it, a pair of stone doors into the mountains themselves opened for them. They were carved with a silvery substance, words elegantly inscribed in the rock.   
“About damn time.” Amelia pulled her boot back on and stood on it, grateful for the stiff support the bandages gave it. Aragorn looked none too happy with her moving around, but couldn’t protest as he surely wanted to due to their circumstances. “Inside. Now. Before that thing in the water comes up for dinnertime.” Legolas looked alarmed and bounced ahead, with that elven grace of his that Amelia envied, and she took a long, trying step, trying to get a feel for what she could take. It certainly hurt her, but whatever herb or ointment Aragorn had given her was as strong as any painkiller and with a quick effect. She grasped Gimli’s shoulder for support, something he seemed to misinterpret as excitement.   
Then, Frodo screamed behind them and they spun, having come halfways into the mine.   
A long, slimy tentacle, coming out of the water, had wrapped around his leg and was dragging him, kicking and screaming, towards itself, its intents clear. Sam sprung towards him with a yell and, to Amelia’s shock and surprise, gave the tentacle a solid whack with the frying pan he held like a sword. Something large and grey began to emerge out of the water and Amelia stared at it, at a loss for words at the sight of it.   
“What the hell is that?!”   
“Into the mine!” Gandalf cried and he, Merry, Pippin and Gimli dashed forwards, while Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas ran towards the creature, to assist Sam, who was still raining blows with his frying pan. Amelia twitched, as if to help the hobbit, but then, she knew he would be fine as whatever that thing was screamed in pain as a fine arrow lodged itself in the folds of its thick hide.  
She trotted into the cave, mindful of her ankle and stood in the darkness, alongside Gandalf, and looked towards the entrance, where Frodo, Sam and Legolas sprinted inside, with Aragorn and Boromir following closely, trying to ward off any more tentacles from following them.   
Then, the doors slammed behind them and a deep rumble echoed from somewhere deeper in the mine, their attacker’s angry roar echoing dully from the other side of the thick rock.  
“Ah, don’t you worry your heads about that.” Gimli clapped Frodo’s shaking shoulder. “My cousin Balin will set you right in no time! These halls were made for grandness, for housing guests getting nothing but the finest. And they call it a mine. A mine!” He laughed as they all took a few steps further into Moria, into the black darkness of the entrance.   
“This is no mine.” Boromir breathed darkly, as their feet scraped over something on the ground. “This is a tomb.” A dim light from the tip of Gandalf’s staff illuminated the small entrance room and she heard Gimli gasp.   
The floor was littered with skeletons, short and stocky, with all the meat and muscles having rotted away long before they arrived. Only the bones and the cobwebs covering them were left. Amelia held up a hand in front of her mouth, to keep herself from gagging. A rotten smell, of dust and decay wafted through the room and Gimli fell to his knees.   
“Now that we’re here…” Amelia frowned, pretending that she was thinking hard and trying in vain not to let the smell and sights of the mine affect her expression. “We can risk a little more light than that. But, whatever you do, keep quiet, and I mean it. No loud noises!” There was an uncomfortable silence.   
“You were right about Caradhras.” Aragorn sounded tired. “Perhaps you will be right about this as well.” Amelia gave Pippin a stern look.   
“And that goes doubly for you two.” She gave him and Merry a hard look and they nodded hastily. She let out a breath. “Good.” She turned towards where Gimli was shaking on the floor in shock and walked over to him, slowly, and stood behind him, close enough that he would know that she was there, offering her silent support.   
“There is only one way we might take.” Gandalf spoke louder than Amelia, to draw the entire attention of the Fellowship to him. “Forwards. It is a four day trip through Moria.” Amelia’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. Then, she remembered that film producers had to be wary of pacing and simply showing the Fellowship hanging out in a big cave probably wasn’t going to be a thrilling experience for the viewers. She clasped Gimli’s shoulder as he rose up and he patted her arm, firmly, before soldiering on, deeper into the mine that had become a graveyard.

Amelia quickly lost all sense of the passing of time. Without daylight, they could only judge the time of the day from how tired they felt and Amelia felt exhausted in truth when the Fellowship finally halted in a room twice as big as the one they had entered when they walked into the mine, but thankfully with no bodies on the floor. Cobwebs there were plenty of, but no skeletons or bones. Amelia wasn’t sure her comfort would be enough if Gimli suddenly spotted an aunt Margaret on the floor or an uncle Robert pierced by one of those black spears littered throughout the rooms.   
Her foot welcomed the rest and she had become to not care whether the Fellowship saw her injury or not. She let her foot rest on the floor as she used her backpack as a pillow, looking over at Frodo, who seemed skittish.   
“Frodo.” She called lowly, no more than a whisper, but in the absolute silence it seemed like a roar. “Come over here. I want to show you something.” He hesitantly approached her and dumped down beside her. The others in the Fellowship tended to their own concerns and Merry and Pippin began chattering amongst themselves, though they still kept their voices to a whispering. Amelia stuck her hand in her backpack, dug around a bit and finally, pulled out a stiff piece of paper. Then, she dug around some more and pulled out the small flashlight. Frodo jumped when she pressed on it and his eyes stared at it. Then, Amelia saw that the others were staring at the small, sharp light as well. The hobbits in particular looked on with rapt fascination.   
“What?” Amelia cocked her head at them, “You meet a girl with the mouth of a salty sailor, finds out she knows stuff about the future and you find a flashlight unusual?” The Fellowship slowly turned away, though Gimli eyed the light wearily. She saw Gandalf’s eyes twinkle and knew he found it all terribly amusing.   
“Look here.” Frodo scooted closer and Amelia lit up the picture on the back of the old postcard. “This is where I grew up.” That wasn’t entirely true; Amelia had never been to the Golden Gate Bridge herself, watching San Francisco bustle in the background, but Amelia figured that since it was in the same country, it counted as such to Frodo. The hobbit looked impressed. She spent a short while attempting to explain the things in the picture, but then turned it over to see the old greeting on the other side.  
Greetings from San Francisco! It read, in Tobias’ sloppy handwriting. Seb says to tell you hi. Wish you were here. Well, most of the time. Give us a call sometime, will you? Then, as an afterthought, scribbled at the bottom where there was almost no space left, it said PS: Happy birthday, Amy!   
“Just a reminder.” Amelia shoved the postcard back into the darkness of her backpack, but hesitated with turning the flashlight off.   
“Of what?”   
“That we’ve all got something to come back to.” Amelia finally said. “Something to… not to fight for, cause I’m terrible at that, but… well, it’s a reason to keep on going.” Amelia didn’t feel like that was exactly what she had wanted to say, but it would have to do. Frodo nodded his curly hair with a pensive expression and then, Amelia turned off the flashlight with a click. The sudden absence of light only made the keen darkness that much heavier around her.  
Amelia slept terribly, not because she dreamt, but because sleeping in a place filled with so much death ensured that she couldn’t let herself relax completely. Legolas, Boromir and Sam seemed to share her sentiment. She stretched, looking around, able to appreciate how pretty the place had to have been filled with golden light and the smell of food even as it was dark and deadly and abandoned, its glory lost to time.   
“We should move on.” Sam shuddered. “This place is… unnatural.” He said the word like it was everything wrong with the world.   
“I wouldn’t use that word myself, but I find myself inclined to agree with you.” Legolas agreed. Amelia felt a tiny pang of sympathy for him. If she found it suffocating, Legolas had to feel ten times as bad as she, since he had grown up and always lived among the trees and animals of Mirkwood.   
“Agreed.” She mumbled. “This place creeps me out.” She glanced towards Gimli’s stirring form. “Even if it is kind of impressive, in a way.” Amelia tried to get to her feet but her right leg buckled under her and she cursed as she fell down again. Gandalf frowned at her. He didn’t look like he had slept at all. Wordlessly, he approached her and Amelia tensed. Then, he bent down and held a wrinkled hand over her foot, mumbling nonsense to himself. The pain slowly drained out of her foot, like pouring water from a bucket, and Amelia couldn’t resist letting out a stifled hum of satisfaction.   
Gandalf didn’t say a word as he turned towards their companions.   
“We should move on.” He spoke, with a worried streak in his words, and the Fellowship scrambled to get on their feet. Amelia wiggled her toes, stood up on her legs and found that her foot was back to the way it was.   
“Wow. Thanks.” She remembered telling Gandalf and he nodded briefly at her before turning and leading the Fellowship onwards, deeper into Moria. Amelia followed suit, sticking close to Gimli and, as they emerged onto a narrow pathway along the cave wall, the rest of the floor fell away to a dark chasm. Her foot was still sore and weak, but the pain had ebbed out of it.   
“Let me risk a little more light.” Gandalf mumbled and the brightness from his staff increased. Amelia remained deep in thought until the wizard spoke again.   
“The wealth of Moria was not in gold or jewels, the toys of dwarves,” He spoke, pointing his staff down to the cave wall continuing beneath their feet. “Nor in iron, their servant… but mithril.” And then, Amelia saw them, the veins of silvery white metal running through the stone, branching out and reminding Amelia of the ithildin that had appeared on the door, to give the Fellowship the riddle to enter Moria. Rotting scaffoldings and mining equipment covered in dust hang forgotten in ropes.   
“Damn.” Amelia couldn’t find anything else to say in the moment.   
“Bilbo had a shirt of Mithril rings that Thorin gave him.” Gandalf sounded weary, but also quite conversational. Gimli gasped in awe.  
“That was a kingly gift!”  
“Yes,” Gandalf smiled to himself. “I never told him, but its worth was greater than all the Shire.” Amelia glanced at Frodo, whose eyes had widened at the realization that his uncle’s gift was worth more than the place he had grown up in. Amelia caught his eyes and winked conspiratorially at him, a small smirk playing at the corners of her lips.   
The pathway finally started to widen, after they had walked on the narrow path for far longer than Amelia had expected them to and though her foot no longer pained her, it was still difficult to walk with for longer than a few minutes and she was grateful for the opportunity to take a seat when three separate corridors offered themselves. Gandalf stopped, completely stumped as Amelia rushed past him to sit and lean against the boulder in the middle of the rough, natural plateau.   
“I have no memory of this place.” Gandalf muttered to himself with a worried face and a frown on his brow. Amelia rolled her eyes, but cocked an eyebrow at the wizard when he looked at her.   
“What?” Then, she realized why he was looking to her and she sighed irritably. “Look, I can’t remember the exact way. Details like that are… foggy, at best. I can tell you that…” She bit her lip, “It’s probably not the one farthest to the right.” Gandalf seemed satisfied with her answer and sat on the boulder she was leaning again as the Fellowship shifted on their feet. Amelia patted the ground and winced when the sound echoed back at her.   
“Come on, guys. We’re going to be here a while.” Amelia was surprised when Merry, Pippin, Sam and Frodo huddled around her, but grateful for their silent company and she glanced over at Legolas to find him watching her. Her mouth quirked upwards.   
“What?”  
“Would that I had a challenge of numbers for you.” He breathed and Amelia raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps that would take all our minds of our circumstances.” Then, she snorted softly, taking care not to have the sound echo again.   
“Yeah, I mean… it’s a nice thought, a really nice thought, but in any case, it’d be harder without anything to write on…” Amelia smiled cautiously at the elf, who showed her the barest hint of a smile before he turned away again and Amelia looked down at her hands, studying them in the dim lighting from Gandalf’s staff. She shuffled, leaning back against her backpack with closed eyes, attempting another moment of rest while she could still get it. The rest of the Fellowship followed suit, attempting to wring some comfort out of the cold, hard rock beneath them. 

Amelia woke with a start, but her eyes remained shut, for she heard Aragorn talking with Boromir and figured that she would repay him the favor of listening in on a private conversation. She did not recall the conversation between them from book nor movie, but also knew that they had far from showed every interaction in the Fellowship. They had quietened their voices when they had seen her twitch, but then continued when she didn’t open her eyes or move again.   
“Long have the people of Gondor stood against foes from Mordor.” She heard Boromir argue softly, but his voice didn’t sound aggressive. It sounded like he was caught up in a daydream. “I would see their courage strengthened, their fear calmed. Gondor returned to its golden age.” He spoke of it so reverently and Amelia thought she could hear a soft undertone in his dreaming voice, one she had never heard before.   
“Sounds nice.” She muttered aloud without thinking and screwed her eyes shut tighter for a second before blinking them, as if she was disoriented. Boromir had stiffened, his face an unreadable mask once again and Aragorn looked calm, a bit uncomfortable perhaps, but not enough for him to bolt. “I mean, I’ve ne-e-e-ver,” Amelia yawned in the middle of the sentence, “Been there. Sure sounds nicer than…” Boromir stood up and walked away, to the opposite end of their makeshift camp, ignoring her. Amelia watched him go with a bitter expression as she finished her sentence, her mouth twisting sourly, “What I’m used to.”   
“Keep trying. There comes a time when he’ll come around.” Aragorn reassured her and she made what could only be described as a shrug with her face.   
“No, I really think he just is that big of an ass.” Aragorn didn’t answer and Amelia glanced over at Boromir, who had turned away from the Fellowship entirely. “Have you ever been there?” Amelia couldn’t remember whether he had. “To Minas Tirith?”  
“Once. It was a long time ago.” Aragorn answered flatly and Amelia didn’t press him further. She wanted to get up, but felt that it would be unfair to disturb the four snoring hobbits huddled around her merely because her legs were going numb. Instead, she leaned back, wondering just how she would be able to stomach watching two of her companions sacrifice their own lives for their cause and their friends, despite her earlier resolve to simply let events play out as they had always been meant to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be afraid to leave a review behind, folks! This story is a real labor of love and, as an amateur writer, I am always STARVED for feedback! Thanks for reading!


	9. Into a Frenzy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “First lesson: Stick ‘em with the pointy end.”  
> -George R. R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

Amelia pulled her hairband off her wrist and pulled her loose hair into a sloppy, low tail, with no other purpose than keeping her hair out of her face. She had managed to doze off once again and for a split second thought that she overheard Frodo confessing to Gandalf that he wished the Ring had never come to him, that none of this had happened, but when she pulled herself fully out of sleep, Gandalf was already lecturing Merry about following his nose when in doubt. Amelia had to take a few quick steps to catch up with them, her foot no longer hindering her. She might as well have dreamt the snippets of conversation between Frodo and Gandalf.  
As an afterthought, she pulled off her coat and stuffed it into her half-empty backpack, so that she could run and pull out her sword easier.   
It still hadn’t sunk fully in that, inevitably, she was going to be in a fight for her life.   
Amelia tested a hand on the hilt of her sword as Gandalf led them on, looking like he absolutely trusted that his chosen pathway would not lead them astray because it, apparently, smelled better than the others. Amelia doubted that he was truly placing his faith in that alone, but as always, she couldn’t be certain about anything when it concerned Gandalf the Grey.   
After their scattered pauses, Amelia completely lost track of whether it was night or day outside. Never had she remained underground for so long. The hobbits all stuck to her and she even held Pippin’s hand, albeit with some reluctance.   
Sam tugged on the sleeve of her sweater and she looked down at him as they entered another wide hallway with a low ceiling. He held up a small piece of jerky and half an apple for her to take and with a start, Amelia realized that she was famished without realizing it. She gave Sam a thumb turned upwards and a smile as she devoured her sparse meal without stopping. She noticed that Aragorn was carrying a lit torch. How he had gotten it, she had no idea, but she found that, above all, she trusted Aragorn’s ability to make do with as little as possible, due to his many years spent as a ranger of the Dúnedain.  
Then, she heard a low sound coming from Gimli and it took her a minute to realize that he wasn’t mumbling to himself, but singing a low, mournful song. 

A king he was on carven throne  
In many-pillared halls of stone  
With golden roof and silver floor,  
And runes of power upon the door.  
The light of sun and star and moon  
In shining lamps of crystal hewn  
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night  
There shone for ever fair and bright.

Amelia felt a maddening urge to ask him who he was singing about, just to be sure, but then she recalled reading the book herself and that the verse was only one of many out of the Song of Dúrin. Gimli wasn’t making the song into a show or a grand gesture, he didn’t draw attention to himself so others could hear the song and he probably didn’t even know that she had heard him. She resolved to letting him be as he sang of chisel and stone, an unweary, hardy people and the final silence in Khâzad-Dum. Amelia failed to understand why everyone were so caught up in the elves when the dwarves had created wonders just as splendid and had a history just as much worth honoring. And she was standing right in the middle of it, in the grand dwarrowdelf.   
The song would only ever have been sung properly by a dwarf, for Gimli’s deep, resonating voice carried within it something that, with no need for words at all, reminded Amelia of pillars of stone, warm darkness and the fire of a forge all on its own.   
Then, they rounded a corner and Amelia saw a streak of light, real sunlight, peeking out through a door torn half off its hinges.   
Amelia knew that door and knew what it meant.   
With a sharp cry, Gimli rushed on ahead, bumping into Amelia and two hobbits on the way and the Fellowship hurried after him, into the room, where Gimli was clutching his hairy head, his helmet cast aside, with deep sobs echoing ominously throughout the room. He knelt in front of a grave, too short to have been for a human or an elf, with runes inscribed on its dusty, white lid. The sunlight was obviously intentional, coming in through a hole specifically designed for it and Amelia had to admire the ingenuity of the dwarves, letting the sun shine on the grave in one, particular moment of the day, even as her heart clenched in sympathy for her friend, who wept out his grief on a stone floor with no comfort in sight. A skeleton leaned against the grave, clutching a weathered book in his dusty hands, and another sat perched on the edge of a wall, a spear through his chest.   
Amelia stepped aside, realizing that she had frozen in the doorway, to allow those behind her to enter the room as well. They spread slowly throughout the room and Gandalf stepped closer to the grave, his clear eyes solemn and sad.  
“Here lies Balin,” Gandalf read the runes aloud in the common tongue, “Son of Fundin, Lord of Moria.” He sighed almost inaudibly. “He is dead then. It is as I feared.” Amelia frowned in contemplation, as a piece of the puzzle refused to fit in.  
“Not to be unsympathetic right now or anything, but… this wasn’t recent. I mean, no one’s been through here for a good long while. Wouldn’t the dwarves, like… get a message or something? Or, not a message, but… this can’t just have gone unnoticed.”   
“It could, if everyone here was killed before they could send a message, or they got cut off from their birds.” Boromir answered grimly and Amelia acknowledged his response with a sharp nod. It made a certain kind of sense, for the enemies of the dwarves to box them in, with no means of getting help from the outside or escaping their predicament.   
Gandalf knelt down to gently take the tome out of the grip of the dead dwarf and he blew the thick layer of dust off of it before he read aloud in a low voice.  
“They have taken the bridge and the second hall. We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes… drums… drums in the deep…” Gimli’s weeping quietened as he stood up and tried to regain his composure, scowling at those who looked at him with pity. “A shadow moves in the dark… we cannot get out…” He looked up from the pages, pausing before he read the final line aloud. “They are coming.”   
Amelia was the only one who didn’t jump when Pippin poked the skeleton sitting on the edge of the empty well and it fell backwards, drawing with it a chain wrapped around its foot and an old bucket. Clang after clang after clang came, alongside loud, metallic screeching and banging and Pippin looked horrified as the noise kept echoing seemingly without end. Before then, there had been only murmuring and silence and the loud sounds made Amelia grimace and wince with each one.   
“Fool of a took!” Gandalf exclaimed loudly, not caring to lower his voice since it would do them no good anymore. He slammed the book in his hands shut. “Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!”   
Then, a deeper boom came, much deeper than what an old, armored skeleton could make. Pippin and Gandalf turned back towards the well with horror in their eyes. Then, drums began to echo bag at them, quicker and quicker, and Amelia felt her breathing quicken. She heard Boromir gasp softly. Legolas and Aragorn turned towards the door where a shrill cackle came from deeper within the mine. It multiplied, until it seemed that every wall was laughing and shouting at them and Frodo drew Sting from its scabbard. Its blue glow lit up like Aragorn’s torch.   
“Orcs!” Legolas exclaimed with a grim face. Boromir dashed towards the open doors and looked out. Then, his head jerked back and Amelia saw two black arrows lodged where his head had been seconds earlier. Boromir looked affronted, as if the arrows had personally insulted him.   
“Get back!” Aragorn shouted at him and Amelia drew Aeglos. Because it had been made by elves, it glowed as well, but its glow was white and dimmer than Frodo’s. “Stay close to Gandalf!” The hobbits huddled around the wizard and Amelia took her place on the left side of Balin’s grave, giving her sword a few trying swings.   
“Amelia, you can’t…” Aragorn began, but Amelia snarled at him.  
“You just watch me.” Her words were shaky, but determined, despite the fear shooting through her veins like shards of ice. Aragorn rushed to help Boromir close the door properly and, just before it closed completely, Amelia heard a deep, inhuman roar, unlike anything she had ever heard before.  
“They have a cave troll.” Boromir sounded irritated, as if he was remarking that it had begun to rain on a day he had planned to take a long walk.   
“Oh, that’s just what we needed.” Amelia grumbled, despite having known about it already. Her grip on her sword was so tight it turned her knuckles white and her hands were shaking. She only watched as Legolas threw axes and planks, scattered alongside the walls, to Aragorn and Boromir, who used them to bar the door in a desperate bid for time.   
Gandalf drew Glamdring with an aggressive grunt, throwing his hat aside and the hobbits drew their own weapons, despite the fact that they had had as much training with them as Amelia had had with horse riding. The door began straining, as if under many blows from the outside, and Gimli jumped up on the tomb with a snarl. Amelia noticed that, without the intense, fast-paced music that had been present in the movies, the situation only seemed that much more real, that much more hopeless and that much more intense, stressful and filled with labored breaths.   
“Let them come!” Gimli hissed viciously. The darkness in his voice made Amelia vaguely uncomfortable and it only added to her nervousness. “There is one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!” Amelia wanted to punch him for making her so nervous, but she knew that she ought to turn her anger towards the orcs and so she did.   
The assault on the old door increased and Amelia jumped on her feet, strangely impatient. Aragorn had drawn the bow he had been carrying on his back instead of his sword, Legolas held his own bow expertly and Boromir had his sword and shield at the ready. The three made up the first line of defense. Then came Gandalf, Gimli, and, finally, Amelia and the hobbits.   
Holes began appearing in the door and Amelia spotted the tips of crude spears and axes forcing their way through the wood. Legolas let his arrow go and it went through one of the holes. A shriek came from the other side and the spear that had made the hole withdrew, but many more came to take its place. Legolas already had another arrow at the ready. Aragorn fired his own shot and hit a target through a hole, just as Legolas had and drew another in the same second the door burst and dark shapes, clad in mismatched armor pieces and haunting faces poured in like water through a broken dam. The cackling, howling and banging seemed deafening, as opposed to the silence they had all languished in for days.   
Aragorn and Legolas showered the orcs with arrows, but it did little to hold them back, despite the accuracy of their shots.   
The orcs were nothing like they had been in the movies. They were so much worse, because, to Amelia, they were real and not mere images on a screen. She tried to remember Arwen’s words about being light on her feet, about not attempting to parry with her sword and all her other advice. Boromir launched into a series of blows so well executed that even Amelia had to admit that, while he may not be a pleasant conversationalist, he was an expertly swordsman. The speed and accuracy of Legolas made the movies seem laughable. He moved like a flying fish, never getting so near that the orcs could harm him with their filthy blades. Aragorn drew his sword when his arrows quickly ran out and his style seemed to be a mix of Legolas and Boromir, with something that was just purely him thrown in. And, in the middle of it all, was Amelia, with an elvish blade, a chip on her shoulder and absolutely no idea what she was doing.   
Gimli jumped into the fray quite literally, with a bloodthirsty roar, swinging his axe in wide arches that left anyone standing a bit too close for comfort scrambling to avoid a beheading.   
As the hobbits, all four of them, cried out in their child-like voices and rushed to join the battle as the orcs forced their way into the chamber, inch by inch, Amelia realized that she had frozen in place and just had time to duck as a spear sailed overhead. Then, in that moment, something changed. She had never before been in a fight for her life. She had always lived in comfort, in safety.   
There’s a monster inside every human, no matter their experience or origin, and it breaks out when they’re forced to fight for survival, with no hope and no immediate means of escape.   
Heads turned briefly when Amelia screamed like she never had before. That orc, that hideous, small, twisted hunchback of an orc had thrown a spear at her head, intending to end her life. That orc had tried to kill her.   
She stabbed Aeglos through the creatures’ bug-like eye as she rushed forwards, using her weight to gain momentum. Instead of the nerve-shattering, icy fear that she had expected to take control of her being the dominant feeling in her body, she felt only rage, cold, calculating and utterly without mercy. She even took satisfaction in twisting her sword before pulling it out, slick and black with blood and something she didn’t want to know what was, jumping over a swinging sword trying to take her legs out beneath and slice her enemy’s head half off its shoulders. Blood sprayed grotesquely out from it and she was surprised to find that she met resistance. Taking a head clean off its shoulders was a lot harder than it looked, but she didn’t care as she turned away, the black blood having hit her face like a dark dash of freckles across her nose.   
Her moves were clumsy, inexperienced with working through tissue, muscle and bone, but she barely registered it. The moves of the orcs weren’t unlike her own, but they had more force behind them. That force made them ungraceful, slow to dodge, and Amelia used every opportunity she had. She nearly stabbed Aragorn through his side, but he dodged and didn’t seem to mind too much. They were both too busy staying alive to worry about that.   
The guttural roar came again and Amelia jerked towards the entrance, where a large, mutated creature burst through the walls, since it was too big to fit through the door. Rock and debris rained down upon them. The troll was bound by rattling chains and it held a metal club, with the end covered in spikes. Its head was large and wide, much like its chest and its skin was a grey color that reminded Amelia of boogers. It roared and Sam, who had been standing in front of it, roared back, though it wasn’t quite as intimidating, and threw himself forwards, between the legs of the enormous foe, whose club smashed down into the floor where Sam had been mere moments ago.   
Stabbing orcs left and right while avoiding a gigantic metal club and attempting not to get herself or her friends injured was hard, even in the frenzy that had taken ahold of Amelia.   
The troll went after Sam, who had landed on his back and was scrambling backwards, and it raised its elephant-like foot to squish him like a bug. Then, it was abruptly and unpleasantly pulled backwards as Legolas had shot one of the orcs holdings its chain and Aragorn and Boromir had seized it, pulling at it with every scrap of strength on their bodies. Amelia had to turn away from the show briefly to save Merry from getting his head lopped off, but was then free to turn back again, though fear still pulsed through every inch of her.   
The troll swung its club around in a circle, roaring in fury and grabbed the chain roughly with its left hand. Aragorn had thrown himself aside to dodge the club, but Boromir hadn’t let go of the chain and his eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen.   
The troll swung the chain to its left and Boromir flew through the air before he collided heavily with the wall. He rolled down onto one of the small, railless balconies on either side of the room and continued rolling out over it, landing on the floor with a thump and a loud groan. He wasn’t unconscious though. He sat up, shaking his hair out of his eyes just in time to see an orc looming over him. His sword had fallen from his grip and Amelia was too far away to reach him. She whirled around, managing to completely take an orc’s head off and spun around again to see a knife embed itself through the orcs skull. Boromir stared at Aragorn, who gave the gondorian a short, acknowledging nod and it took her a second to realize that he had just saved Boromir’s life.   
Amelia had to roll away from the tomb as the troll’s club came down on it in an attempt to get Gimli, who had effortlessly jumped off the grave, rolled back onto his feet and started cleaving his way through orcs. Whenever the troll tried to swing its heavy weapon at him, he ducked or rolled so that it was an orc that met its untimely end and not him, the last dwarf in Moria. However, as Amelia stabbed an orc through the stomach from behind that was rushing towards him, she saw that he had truly fallen and was about to get smashed. Then, two arrows embedded themselves in the troll’s shoulder and it staggered backwards, screaming deeply in pain. Amelia rushed over in the brief opening, seized Gimli’s arm and pulled him up roughly.   
“If you die on me now, I swear, I will kill you.” She hissed and Gimli laughed, a deep sound born from bloodlust and the bond two individuals only strike in battle. Amelia looked up to see the source of the arrows and saw Legolas standing on one of the balconies, dodging the heavy chain as the troll swung it at him like a whip. Then, when the chain wrapped itself around a pillar and stiffened, Legolas ran on it onto the shoulders of the troll and shot its thick head straight from above. The shot wasn’t enough it kill it, due to its thick hide, but it still roared as it flailed around and Legolas had to jump off.   
Amelia focused on what she was doing instead of the elf and hit an orc on the nose with her elbow when she was too busy stabbing another with her sword to swing at it. It screeched and Gimli’s axe cleaved its head from top to mouth before it severed it. She worked well with the dwarf; they shared a witty nature out of battle and a vicious one in it and they both laughed uproariously when they caught sight of Sam smacking goblins with a battered frying pan.   
Amelia heard Pippin yelling something and she whirled around, seeing the troll bringing its club down where Merry, Pippin and Frodo had been standing. Frodo threw himself to the left while Merry and Pippin went to the right.   
Her distraction was costly, as a wide knife clumsily buried itself in her left arm, but she hardly registered the pain as she moved again, killing and keeping an eye on the unfolding events at the same time.   
“Frodo!” Aragorn yelled, pulling his sword out of another orc as Frodo moved around a pillar to obscure himself from the troll, who looked at it from both sides, but then caught sight of the hobbit. He scrambled backwards, but the troll caught his leg in its fist and dragged him forwards as she struggled and kicked at it to no avail. Both Gimli, Aragorn and Amelia stabbed and slashed their way to him and Frodo yelled all of their names. Primal terror and rage coursed through Amelia and it only fueled the swings of her blade as she cut her way through the skin of her foes.   
Aragorn reached Frodo first as he managed to nick the troll with his sword and it let him go, giving Aragorn the opening he needed to jump between the troll and the ringbearer. He held a spear he had taken from a fallen orc and, as the troll raised its arms to bring its club down, he rammed it into its stomach, forcing it to let go of the club, but that freed its hand to smack him aside. He slammed into a pillar and didn’t move. Frodo rushed to him and shook him, but he had lost consciousness and didn’t respond. Gimli had gotten distracted as two orcs attacked him at once and Amelia had forgotten all that she knew was bound to happen, caring only to reach Frodo before the troll did him any harm.  
Frodo’s attempt to escape was blocked by the troll, who had grabbed the large spear that Aragorn had stabbed it with and used it to cut him off. He was pushed up against a wall, his face paling in terror, and the troll wasted no chance in pushing the heavy spear straight into his stomach.   
Even though she knew that Frodo couldn’t die, that Frodo was meant to complete their quest intact and alive, the sight maddened her to the point where she couldn’t string together coherent thoughts any longer. As Merry and Pippin jumped onto the trolls back from the balcony and Frodo stood, his mouth open and his eyes wide from the force of the blow, Amelia threw herself forwards and stabbed the abomination through its short leg. Then, as Frodo fell forwards to the ground, looking dead to all who did not know with certainty that he wasn’t, the troll came under the combined assault of the grief of the Fellowship of the Ring. Gimli, Gandalf, Boromir and Amelia hacked at its legs, feet and anything they could reach while the two hobbits stabbed the orc in the back at the same time. The pain made the troll bend backwards, baring its neck, which Legolas shot it straight through. Its roars changed to a slow, surprised kind and it staggered, the hobbits quickly jumping off. Amelia caught Pippin and Merry landed on top of Gimli, who nearly fell over and shoved him away. Then, the troll wobbled and fell forwards, much like Frodo had done moments before and the dust rose where it landed and it did not move any longer.  
With a start, Amelia saw that she had nothing more to hack at. She breathed and spun on her feet, but then wasted no time in hurrying over to Frodo, alongside everyone in the Fellowship. Instead of approaching him slowly or leaning against the pillars, having lost all hope, Amelia didn’t stop and rushed down to kneel beside him, just as Aragorn was, since he had woken and was reaching out for the ringbearer with a soft “oh no”.  
Amelia grabbed Frodo and together, she and Aragorn turned him over to see his pale face very much alive, but gasping for air. Sam rushed to him instantly and gave Gandalf a relieved look.  
“He’s alive.” The very words seemed to brighten the room just a bit.   
“I’m alright.” Frodo forced the words out. “I’m not hurt.”   
“You’re gonna have one hell of a bruise though.” Amelia remarked through gasps for air and Sam blinked at her, seemingly confused by her lack of surprise or relief.   
“You should be dead.” Aragorn sounded astonished and breathless. “That spear would have skewered a wild boar.”   
“I think there is more to this hobbit than meets the eye.” Gandalf said warmly and Frodo’s hands fluttered to his collar, which he pulled down to reveal the wondrous mithril shirt that lay beneath.  
“Mithril…” Gimli breathed in awe, but then he smiled warmly at Frodo. “You’re full of surprises, master Baggins.”  
“I hate to break this touching moment, but…” Amelia began urgently, but then, the renewed distant screeching began again and she grimaced darkly. It made her notice that she had small, stinging scratches along her jaw, blood splattered across her nose, blood seeping out of her from a large gash on the side of her head and when she looked down herself, she saw that the orcs had dared to tear the sleeves of her sweater. “They’ve got more.”   
“There will always be more.” Gandalf answered seriously as she pulled Frodo to his feet. “To the bridge of Khazad-Dûm!” No one thought twice about following his orders as they sprinted wildly from the grave of Balin without looking back, though Amelia stumbled and pushed brown tangles out of her face in their wild flight out of the final resting place of the Lord of Moria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this chapter was difficult to write. Oh well. As always, I hope you enjoyed and please leave a review behind, even if it's just two or three words!


	10. Guardian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When he shall die,  
> Take him and cut him out in little stars,  
> And he will make the face of heaven so fine  
> That all the world will be in love with night  
> And pay no worship to the garish sun.”  
> \- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Amelia felt nauseous.  
It rose up in her as she ran after Gandalf, out from the chamber where she had killed something, on purpose, for the first time in her life. She doubted the others suspected it had been her first real fight, that it had even crossed their minds, despite her continued insistence that Gandalf hadn’t brought her for her prowess in battle.  
However forced, however necessary, she had killed another sentient being. What was worse was that she had enjoyed it, even reveled in the power it gave her. Alongside her newfound discomfort though, there was a dark sense of certainty, that she could, if it should ever become necessary, defend herself and kill in self-defense if it came down to it.  
All that ran through her head in a few seconds. She felt sick to her stomach and the sprinting did little to soothe her nausea. She could hear the orcs and goblins, pouring out from other chambers and even down from the ceiling, like a nightmarish case of termites, and she felt exhaustion flow through her, but her determination kept it at bay and she kept running as the Fellowship emerged into a gigantic hall with neat rows of squared pillars. Orcs poured out of a large hole in the ceiling, climbing on it as if it was no harder than batting an eyelid and Amelia sped up her pace when she saw that they were ahead of them, cutting them off from their escape. An unkind hand grabbed her and pulled her back, as the Fellowship was forced to form a circle. They were completely surrounded by a sea of orcs, with bulging eyes, drooping mouths, sharp armors and weapons clanging against each other as they leered at their prey. Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli made up the outer circle, while Merry, Pippin, Sam, Frodo and Amelia had been pushed into the middle of it. Amelia felt a surge of irritation at this, as she felt that it was implied that she was a weak link, to be protected, unable to protect, but then she realized that they were right about all of that and her aggression died out a bit.  
Then, as the distance between their circle and the orcs grew close to being nonexistent, a distant rumble, reminiscent of an earthquake, echoed out through the hall. The orcs stopped their advance and muttered amongst themselves in their harsh language, obviously agitated, but suddenly too nervous to attempt an attack. She realized that whoever had yanked her back were still clutching her arm tightly and she looked down to see Sam, the chubby cook with a frying pan, face bright with determination and terror. She didn’t tell him to let go.  
The rumble echoed again, louder, and the orcs turned tail, scrambling up the pillars and a distant, fiery glow began to come from the end of the hall that the Fellowship had been running from. The orcs didn’t even try to at least give them a warning shove as they rushed straight past them in what seemed like mindless terror. Then, their tight circle began to loosen and Boromir gripped his sword tighter, even as Gimli cheered at the orcs’ escape.  
“What is this new devilry?” He mumbled wearily and Amelia glanced at Gandalf. He looked exhausted, as if he had suddenly given up all hope and the sight was one Amelia was unlikely to forget. Seeing their unofficial leader looking so old and weathered was unpleasant. Gandalf held his answer back for a long moment as the glow came closer and a deep grumbling, unlike any orc, came again.  
“A balrog.” He answered darkly, clutching his staff for support. “A demon of the ancient world.” Legolas had his eyes pointed stiffly towards the glow. Amelia knew that, out of any of them, he knew best what a balrog was and was capable of. Aragorn looked alarmed, as did Frodo, Gimli looked as lively as ever and Boromir looked uncertain, but firm. “This foe is beyond any of you.” Gandalf continued in that old, old voice. He turned his head away from the unnatural light. “Run!” He yelled, but it seemed to have lost an edge, a spark of hope that Amelia had never noticed it held before it disappeared. Still, he rushed forwards, holding his lit staff high for all to see and follow and the distant, rumbling roar grew ever louder as they all slipped in a doorway, Gandalf going in last to ensure that all were safely through before himself. The hallway, essentially just one long stair, went downwards and Amelia flew down the steps, her heart beating so quickly that it was bordering on painful.  
She didn’t check whether Gandalf was still following them as they emerged out into a large chasm and the stairway continued across it. There was just the slight problem of a good chunk of it simply missing. Boromir hadn’t spotted it and was losing his balance, standing on the edge of the remaining stair. Legolas grabbed him by the neck and pulled him back to safety as the Fellowship skidded to a halt.  
“We can’t just sit on our hands here!” Amelia yelled, her voice an octave lighter than what was normal. She felt herself beginning to panic and tried desperately to slow her breathing.  
“We must jump!” Legolas exclaimed and Amelia’s ankle thumped, as a painful reminder of everything that could go wrong. Boromir went first, easily making the jump once he was prepared for it and he turned, stretching his arms out on the other side. Amelia sheathed her sword as Legolas jumped after him, as easily as taking a single step and she felt herself moving. She threw herself wildly through the air without thinking and for a moment, she hung between the two halves of the bridge, completely free. Then, she landed heavily on the other side, Boromir’s and Legolas’ arms keeping her from falling backwards, into the abyss below them and she rushed past him to sprint after Legolas, who had begun a trot across the bridge, but not a run, for that would separate him and anyone following him from the Fellowship and that couldn’t be allowed. The others jumped quickly, recognizing that there wasn’t time or opportunity for second thoughts, but Frodo nearly fell when the first half of the bridge began to crumble. Aragorn threw Sam, Pippin and Merry across, but Gimli refused, making the jump by himself. His feet landed on the edge and he started to fall, but Boromir caught onto the first thing within his reach. Unfortunately, that proved to be Gimli’s beard. Amelia winced in sympathy as she halted beside Legolas at the end of the stair, waiting for the others. Finally, they were all safely on the other side and then, they were running again.  
They took a sharp turn to the right and Amelia found herself at the rear end of the group, alongside Gandalf, as they emerged into another hall, much like the one where they had been surrounded in, except that fire was burning in it and Gandalf turned towards the opposite end of the one they should be running towards. Against all sense, Amelia ran back to him, grabbing his shoulder.  
“What are you…” She screamed at him, but then, a dark foot the size of a tank stomped on the fire and the words died before they had been born. She stood beside Gandalf as the balrog emerged from the fire and Amelia felt tears of horror pricking her eyes, but the intense heat radiating from the fire and the balrog made them vaporize before they could fall and Amelia began to sweat intensely.  
If hell had a face, the balrog wore it.  
It could never be put into words how much fear, awe and hopelessness it inspired in those that beheld it. Black skin over a fiery, inner glow, like magma, and jaws that could have been the doors of death itself. A demonic body, its full height comparable to a skyscraper and claws as long as harpoons on enormous feet and hands. Black wings sprouted from its back. Smoke billowed and the air filled with the stench of fire, burnt flesh and undiluted death.  
“Oh my god…” Amelia breathed, but felt that her puny words could never express what she felt in that moment. Gandalf grabbed her arm and shoved her backwards as the balrog took a step forwards. Amelia turned her back to it and ran for her life, for all that she held dear and for survival.  
Since she had seen the balrog herself, but the rest of the Fellowship hadn’t, she only had that much greater reason to quicken her pace and she sprinted forwards in mindless terror, her feet barely touching the ground as she crossed another narrow bridge without railings after passing Frodo, Boromir, Sam, Merry and Pippin in her mad dash for survival.  
“You cannot pass!” She heard Gandalf bellow and she spun to see him on the bridge, standing halfway across it. As if someone had flipped a switch, she remembered her decision to keep as much as possible from the Fellowship and she felt as if someone had dropped a boulder into her stomach.  
“Gandalf!” Frodo yelled at the wizard as he stopped. Gandalf, his grey silhouette stark against the balrog, which had stopped at the start of the bridge and towered over him, was an inspiring sight, with Glamdring gleaming like a pale torch and his staff an ever present companion.  
“I am a servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Arnor!” Gandalf shouted at the balrog, which made him look like an insect in comparison. The movies had done a pathetic job of portraying it correctly. The light from his staff and Glamdring’s gleaming gave Gandalf what seemed like a surreal, protective halo, shielding him. “The dark fire shall not avail you, flame of Udûn!”  
“Amelia!” She turned to see Aragorn hurrying back towards her. He looked worried. “What will become of him?” Amelia gaped at him.  
“You’re serious?!” She yelled at him. “Right now, right this moment?!”  
“Will he make it through?” Amelia bit her lip and looked away. She couldn’t lie to him when he was asking her so desperately, but she couldn’t possibly tell him the truth either.  
“That depends on how you look at it.” She shouted and jumped aside as black arrows began to rain down on them from hidden ledges. It appeared that the goblins of Moria had yet to give up their quarry entirely. “Now get your ass in gear and start moving!” She shoved him roughly and he blinked at her, as if he was dazed. Amelia turned back, unable to tear herself away. Only Boromir, Frodo and herself remained to watch what became of Gandalf the Grey. The balrog wielded a whip of flames in one fists and a pure inferno in the other as it roared at its challenger.  
“Go back to the shadow!” Gandalf hissed loudly and Boromir caught Frodo before he could run out to the wizard. “You shall not pass!” Gandalf bellowed in a mighty voice, one that seemed to carry the supernatural power of the maiar that he was. Then, after raising his staff and sword, he brought them down and a flash of light struck out from where it collided with the bridge. A moment of silence reigned before the balrog roared and rushed forwards, but beneath it, the bridge crumbled into nothing and it lost its footing, falling into the chasm below. Amelia could have wept in relief, but kept her eyes trained stiffly on Gandalf, who stood, breathing heavily, on the intact part of the bridge, overlooking the abyss before he turned back.  
Then, the flaming whip of the balrog lashed up and wrapped itself around his foot, pulling it out from underneath him and he was pulled backwards. He dropped Glamdring and his staff to hold onto the edge of the bridge and Frodo shouted his name again as he clutched the bridge. He looked at them and, from such a distance, Amelia could barely see his face, but she knew that he was looking right at them.  
“Fly, you fools!” His gasping words seemed to echo in the darkness and then, he was gone, along with his staff, Glamdring and Amelia’s hopes returning home before she got too far in to stop.  
“Gandalf!” Frodo’s scream was cast back at them, a scream of grief and despair and Boromir had to pull him back as the air grew thick with arrows. Apparently, with the absence of the balrog, the orcs saw their chance to take up their attack once more and Amelia turned away from the remains of the bridge, feeling a sick feeling taking root in her gut at the thought that she was, no matter her intentions, at least partly responsible for Frodo’s anguished wails. 

The last time a figure in Amelia’s life died was when her sour, but sweet old grandfather had died, but even then, he had had peace when he passed. It hadn’t been in a fight he never wanted on his hands, it hadn’t been in a desperate attempt to save the fate of a world that already hung by a thread and the effect was obvious to anyone who knew it.  
They had made it out of the mine at last, the sunlight of a pale, grey day greeting them. They had stopped their flight immediately Merry and Pippin were huddled together on the ground, Pippin lying on his side, sobbing his grief out onto the rocks. Aragorn seemed exhausted, but filled with a hopeless determination. Boromir was holding back a struggling Gimli, to keep him from rushing back into the mine to take on everything that lay there himself and offering silent, meagre comfort. Legolas stood in the middle, with a lost expression on his fair face and for once, Amelia could read him like an open book. Elves were immortal. Elves didn’t have to deal with death, other than those who fell in battle. He looked dazed, as if he was walking through a dreamscape, but Amelia had dumped down on a rock and couldn’t bring herself to rise up to comfort anyone, despite how deep their grief was. She hid her face in her hands, more than ever wishing that she was at home, that she didn’t have to deal with death and despair. She heard Gimli’s intense struggling and turned her face towards him.  
“Gimli.” She called in a voice more exhausted than she ever thought she would have to have. “Don’t. He’s gone. You getting yourself killed for him wouldn’t change anything.” Gimli actually listened to her, struggled for another second and then deflated on himself. Boromir let him go at last.  
“Legolas.” Aragorn called heavily as he cleaned his sword. “Get them up.”  
Amelia gaped at him as the elf began to gently urge the hobbits to rise again, to keep on going despite the loss they had just suffered.  
“Give them a moment, for pity’s sake!” Boromir yelled at him and Amelia found herself agreeing with his sentiment.  
“By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs!” Aragorn cried back, tension thick in the air. “We must reach the woods of Lothlórien.” He threw his head towards the glimpse of green trees able to be spotted between the trees.  
To keep on going, after watching a leader figure fall for them, with no end to it for hours, and to have killed other sentient beings, even orcs, in such a cruel manner and to delight in it…  
Amelia stood up, as if she had been sitting on a spring, and sprinted away, with Aragorn calling her name in concern. She staggered into a large boulder, bent forwards and threw up behind it, her stomach turning its insides out in protest and disgust. She spat and spluttered, gasped for air and then straightened her back, refusing to succumb. She wiped her mouth and turned around, wobbling slightly on her feet, as she made her way back to the men. Boromir, Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn helped the hobbits to their feet, but Frodo was wandering off. Aragorn called for him and he halted to a stop, slowly turning around and Amelia spotted several silent tears rolling down his pale face.  
She jumped when she felt a hand hesitantly touching her and she saw that Boromir was offering her a leathery sack of something. She took it hesitantly and then, by feeling its contents sloshing around, knew that it was a waterskin. She was touched by the kind gesture and gave Boromir a sorrowful, but grateful look. He looked gravely into her eyes and, finally, Amelia felt that she could understand him a little better. He wordlessly turned away and the Fellowship began to press forwards, but without Gandalf to lead them, they no longer walked in a straight line. Rather, they were spread out, always within sight of each other, but with no focused point to follow.


	11. A Stranger in a Foreign Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I had crossed the line. I was free; but there was no one to welcome me to the land of freedom. I was a stranger in a strange land.”  
> -Harriet Tubman

As the Fellowship ran towards the woods, since they had all silently decided that a trot would do them more good than a slow walk, wallowing in their grief, Amelia found herself unexpectedly conflicted, on top of the guilt and grief Moria had thrown upon her. She noticed that she was sticking close to Merry and Pippin, who stuck together like glue as always, and was finally able to walk at a normal pace once again once trees surrounded her on all sides. Most of the trees were tall, with yellow or misty grey leaves gently falling around her like snow, but some trees were pure white, nearly transparent and looked like mirages. She heard Gimli telling the hobbits about an elf-witch and rolled her eyes at him. She might not have had enough energy to stomach the thought of running another mile, though she had done so amicably despite the sting in her side, but she would never be unable to muster enough for an eyerolll.  
“Well… here’s one dwarf she won’t ensnare so easily!” Gimli grumbled and Amelia felt like laughing, but the amusement refused to come. She had not listened to the conversations of the rest of the Fellowship as they formed a line again and walked through the trees, keeping their steps as light as possible. However, Gimli’s boasting caught her attention. “I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox- oh!” He exclaimed as an arrow was shoved in his face. Then, as if they materialized out of thin air, elves with long hair and golden armor stepped forth around them, a dozen arrows trained on each of them. Legolas instantly had his bow at the ready, but Amelia caught his blue eyes and shook her head ever so slightly. She was amazed when he lowered it.  
“The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark.” A haughty voice said and an elf stepped forth. He looked nothing like his movie-counterpart, Amelia noted, but perhaps that was an improvement. His hair wasn’t pale, but a fresh, golden strawberry blonde instead and his pale, green eyes shone as if they held an inner light. Gimli literally growled at his quip and Amelia stifled a giggle. She was exhausted beyond all sense.  
“You travel in a company…” Haldir’s eyes swept over their filthy frames. “And yet, not in one seeming to be bound for a specific land.” His eyes rested on her and he raised both of his eyebrows. “And with a woman. A strange tale to tell, I sense.”  
“Oh, mate, you have no idea.” Amelia breathed and Haldir seemed surprised that she could speak at all.  
“And the mystery increases, as ever.” He turned towards Legolas, resting a hand on his chest and then making a soft gesture towards his fellow elf. “Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduillion.” He greeted and Amelia instantly tuned out. The two babbled in elvish, on an on, and Haldir greeted Aragorn in the same manner as well.  
“What’s with all this elvish nonsense? Speak words we can all understand!” Gimli exclaimed in annoyance, still insulted. Haldir’s face hardened at his rude tone.  
“We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the dark days.” The veiled threat was there, but Gimli pressed on.  
“And you know what this dwarf says to that?” He proclaimed a loud curse in Khuzdul and Amelia felt a surge of irritation. She was tired, hungry and had no time for petty grudges of who insulted whose grandfather. She spun around, the elves pointing at her with their bows tightening their grips on their weapons and stomped heavily on Gimli’s foot. He shouted something in his native tongue at her in his pain.  
“Gimli, you are the best friend I have in this hole, but if you don’t shut up, I will pull you backwards through the horn of Gondor.” She threatened and he grumbled at her.  
“Amelia, Gimli…” Aragorn warned them both and Amelia turned back towards Haldir obediently, but begrudgingly. Surprisingly, he looked amused at their little display. Amelia wondered whether the customer service in Lórien was as brilliant as it was in Rivendell. However, Haldir caught sight of Frodo and he stiffened.  
“You bring great evil with you.” He spoke as if he had spotted the balrog itself. He whipped towards Aragorn once again. “You can go no further.”  
“Oh. Brilliant.” Amelia grumbled and Legolas hushed her gently. Her fingers ached to strangle him with her bare hands, but she settled for dumping down onto the forest floor as Aragorn started arguing with Haldir in elvish so quick that only a native speaker would be able to follow. Amelia felt something stopping her from putting her backpack down and she turned it over, curious.  
An orcish dagger, crude and black, with a vaguely greenish undertone, was embedded in it. Amelia blinked until the pieces fell into place and the pulled it out, leaving a thin hole in her backpack, which was already starting to see some wear and tear. An orc had tried to stab her from behind, but her backpack had stopped it. Amelia felt confused, as she knew that the dagger was too long to be stopped by the backpack alone, but then it hit her. She pulled out her coat and true enough, its back was torn, but everything else was intact and it was still plenty usable.  
“Gimli?” She called slowly and the dwarf scowled at her, rubbing his foot. “Is there a specific word for when you survive something you know you definitely, under any circumstances, shouldn’t have survived?” Gimli snorted.  
“I believe that is called sheer, dumb luck.” He answered and Amelia nodded slowly.  
“Yeah. I suppose it is.” Amelia stuffed the dagger inside the pocket of her coat, seeing no sense in throwing a usable weapon, no matter how foul, away and leaned back, using it as a headrest, as she tried to wrap her head around the fact that she only lived due to a simple coincidence. 

“Gandalf’s death was not in vain.” Amelia jerked awake, but once again, she couldn’t recall what she had dreamed about, other than faint glimpses of snow and curly hair. It seemed that one or two hours had passed and night had begun to fall on the forest. She could still hear Aragorn arguing intently with Haldir in elvish, with Legolas chirping his own comments now and again. She blinked a few times and pulled herself up into a sitting position. Then, she saw that Boromir was talking to Frodo, who still had an unsmiling, unhappy face. “Nor would he have you give up hope.” Boromir continued and Amelia thought that she saw a glimpse of the man who had helped her get into Rivendell so long ago. “You carry a heavy burden, Frodo. Don’t carry the weight of the dead.” Frodo still looked unhappy, but Boromir’s words had clearly given him something to contemplate and Amelia thought she saw just a bit of the raw grief in his eyes lessen, though it didn’t disappear.  
“You will follow me.” Haldir suddenly ordered in a language all present understood and Amelia rubbed the final bits of sleep out of her eyes as she got to her feet and followed the marchwarden. They had entered the woods in a fresh trot, but Haldir and his followers seemed content with a calm walk through the trees, taking time to appreciate the nature around them. Amelia had tied her coat around her waist, like a skirt again, and she brushed the clumps of her hair that had fallen out of her ponytail behind her ears.  
“Hey.” She mumbled as she caught up to Boromir. He didn’t answer, but turned his head towards her. She held out his waterskin. She had nearly forgotten to return it to him. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” He nodded and fastened it at his belt again and they walked in silence, aware of the feeling that the forest itself was watching them. They walked like that, in one, long line for what seemed like an entire night, until Boromir helped her up a hilltop and she stopped in awe, just as everyone else had.  
“Caras Galadhon.” Haldir spoke reverently, with a clear love in his voice. “The heart of elvendom on earth. Realm of Lord Celeborn, and of Galadriel, Lady of Light.” They were overlooking a golden forest. Not yellow or orange, like the one they had come from, but golden, the rising sun’s rays making it shine as if it had been polished. The trunks of the trees were white and silver, like misty mornings and silvery clouds, and Amelia found herself at a loss for words.  
Twining and twirling architecture, vaguely reminiscent of the one in Rivendell, swirled up around the gigantic mallorn trees, forming intricate stairs, platforms and plateaus. The distant sound of wind chimes and fountains were carried to them by a warm breeze and the forest floor had white paths laid out for weary travelers to follow. The elves, who fit into the environment perfectly due to their natural beauty, grace and poise, wandered on and among the trees in robes and dresses, with circlets of their fair heads.  
The Fellowship followed Haldir into the serene splendor, craning their necks to look up towards the natural roof made by the treetops. White lanterns, hung on low branches and perched on white pedestals, lit up their path for them. The Fellowship was led up one of the stairs built around one of the enormous trees, as tall as the balrog and some even more than that, and from that they could get a good look at the various alcoves, plateaus and pathways, all of them with a soft glow, that had been built with an obvious respect and love for the forest it was built in.  
The sound of distant singing, in high, melodious voices, was carried throughout the forest like a gentle whisper and Haldir led them all up onto a platform in front of the largest residence in sight. It was white, with holes that formed a pattern too intricate for mortal eyes to follow, and a glow bordering on holy emanated from its inside. They were placed directly at the foot of the stair leading up and into the house and Amelia caught Boromir’s eyes flittering around nervously.  
“Relax.” She muttered at him, but he didn’t seem to hear. Then, Amelia’s eyes were led to the contours of two tall people, a man and a woman, appearing against the glow. Frodo and Sam’s eyes widened, Amelia saw that Merry gaped openly at them and Aragorn bowed his head at them in respect. Amelia took a good look at them and immediately concluded two things. First, the woman’s portrayal in the movies couldn’t even hold a candle to the real thing and, secondly, the woman’s beauty was one that was perhaps only surpassed by Arwen Undómiel herself, though it was another kind of beauty. Galadriel’s beauty was older, more solemn. Amelia thought that the name of Lady of Light couldn’t have been more accurate. Appearing in a white dress, with a silvery circlet resting in her long, golden hair, Galadriel truly looked like some otherworldly apparition. Her husband, Lord Celeborn, was tall and fair, looking nothing like how Peter Jackson had imagined him. His hair was longer, a silvery white, and he was tall, looking to be at the height of his life, clad in white and silver robes.  
“The enemy knows you have entered here.” Celeborn spoke gravely. “What hope you had in secrecy is now gone.” Amelia felt a spark of defiance, but was smart enough to hold her tongue. “Eight I see, yet nine there were set out from Rivendell and no woman was among them. Tell me, where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him. I can no longer see him from afar.” His words were not as unkind as they had been in the movie, but Galadriel looked into Aragorn’s eyes and saw the truth in them. When she spoke, her voice was deeper than what Amelia would have suspected, but it carried a hint of something ancient, a remnant of an age long gone from the world.  
“Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land.” She spoke mournfully and the sound of something so beautiful speaking such sorrow felt like a knife in Amelia’s chest. “He has fallen into shadow.”  
“He was taken by both shadow and flame.” Legolas said quietly. “A balrog of Morgoth… for we went needlessly into the net of Moria.”  
“Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life.” Galadriel sounded as if her thoughts were far away. “We do not yet know his full purpose.” Amelia, who had been studying the steps of the stairs, looked up and locked eyes with Galadriel, two pairs of blue eyes staring into each other. “And yet there are some amongst us… who do know much of it.” Galadriel’s voice was devoid of any accusation, but the Fellowship turned their heads towards Amelia in confusion. You know much, Aiano. Galadriel’s voice in her head was more sinister than the one she had in normal conversation. Be weary, that it does not come to turn events for the worse. “But it shall remain hidden from us… for a time.” Amelia broke eye contact and looked down, briefly closing her eyes to stem the crushing guilt, but then she frowned. That is the name I have given you, for you are but a stranger in a foreign land, far from your home.  
“Do not let the emptiness of Khazad-Dûm fill your heart, Gimli son of Glóin.” Gimli looked up at the Lady with a reverent expression and Amelia knew that he was already completely enamored. Elf-witch indeed. “For the world has grown full of peril, and in all lands love is now mingled with grief.” Galadriel turned towards Boromir, who gasped softly and his eyes widened. Amelia knew some of what Galadriel told him in the ensuing silence, but not the absolute details, word for word, but they seemed close to bringing the mighty warrior to tears, something Amelia thought that she would never see in her life. She made no move to comfort him.  
“What now becomes of this Fellowship? Without Gandalf, hope is lost.” Celeborn spoke softly and Amelia protested without thinking.  
“No, it isn’t.” She said abruptly and came under the collective scrutiny of elves, hobbits, humans and a dwarf. “Our success wasn’t hinged on Gandalf’s survival. It depended on the ring’s destruction. It still does!”  
“The quest stands upon the edge of a knife.” Galadriel said, with a soft, acknowledging nod towards Amelia. “Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all.” To Amelia, those words didn’t exactly bring her comfort. She was, essentially, one big, fat aberration. She saw Boromir looking lost and a bit shocked, Aragorn thoughtful and Frodo with a face that she couldn’t quite decipher. “Yet hope remains, while company is true. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest, for you are weary with sorrow and much toil. Tonight, you will sleep in peace.” Galadriel glanced at Frodo and Amelia knew and remembered enough to know that Galadriel was speaking to him in a way that was beyond words.  
They were led away from the Lord and Lady of Lórien without exchanging another word with them. 

They were given their own canopy in the trees, one large and with enough beds for them all and were informed that, if they needed something, they needed only ask, for they were guests of the highest honor, of the last living member of the House of Finarfin. Legolas was happy to bear the robes offered to him, white with silver swirls and he bore a circlet due to his royal heritage. The hobbits were all given new clothes, but Gimli, Boromir and Amelia refused to change out of theirs, though Amelia was glad to accept a bath, a brush and a proper meal after so long without it. She accidentally tore out several clumps of her hair when she attempted to brush it, but when an elf offered to help her and did so, Amelia barely felt the brush carting through her damp hair. Having second thoughts, she stuffed her sweater, coat and gloves down her backpack, but kept her white shirt, pants, socks and boots on, despite them being filthy. She would have them washed when she went to bed, she informed the elves, but first the set off to follow Boromir, for he had wandered off into a seemingly random direction and had yet to return.  
As she walked in the direction that he had taken, she heard a mournful song vibrating through the air and she looked up to see the shapes of many elves standing tall on stairs, platforms and in alcoves, singing a lament for Gandalf in their melodious voices, capable of conveying so much more grief and sorrow than any mortals ever would. For a long moment she simply stood still, letting their voices wash over her, but then she continued, eventually ending up on the forest floor. As she rounded a corner made by a large mallorn, she happened upon a riverbank. She blinked as she saw Aragorn and Boromir standing close with blazing eyes, as if they had been arguing.  
“What’s going on here?” She asked innocently, even though she knew full well what Aragorn had hissed at Boromir moments before her arrival.  
“It’s nothing of importance.” Aragorn reassured her calmly and she raised her eyebrows at him.  
“You’re an excellent liar, I’ll give you that, but now it’s time for little rangers to head off to bed. So shoo. I need to talk to Boromir.” Aragorn looked as if he was going to argue, but Amelia gave him a hard look and he wisely headed off in the direction she had come from.  
Boromir dumped down on a mallorn root and put his head in his hands. Then, he looked up, looking tired and a bit annoyed.  
“You wished to speak with me?”  
“No.” Amelia sat down beside him. “I just wanted Aragorn away from you. You two picking a fight is the last thing we need on our hands.”  
“We were not…”  
“Don’t give me any of that. I could smell the testosterone half a mile away.” Then, she rolled her shoulders. “Now that we’re here though, I feel like I should, I don’t know… apologize or something.” Boromir looked surprised. “I mean, you’ve been a royal pain in the arse, but I haven’t been acting much better and you… might have deserved every bit of what I gave you, but that doesn’t I should have…”  
“Is this how all your apologies go?”  
“Yes, actually. I’m usually too proud to acknowledge or regret that I’ve been a bitch, so, well… you should probably feel pretty special. I know I’m… difficult, when it comes to respect, but… well, we don’t have things like nobility back home. We take absolute equality very seriously, except when we don’t.” Amelia realized that she actually had something that she wanted to speak to him about. “Back in Moria… that was my first fight. First, actual, real fight. I’d never even seen an orc before. And you’ve… well, I feel like I, I don’t know… understand why you act the way you do a little better now. You’ve spent your entire life fighting for your country, leading Gondor, helping your people and then, some ranger comes waltzing in and you’re told that you ‘owe him your allegiance’ or something like that, I mean… After a whole life of real fighting and him being off, doing who knows what and being who knows where, I can understand why you might have needed to go and scream into your pillow for a few hours and I am completely rambling right now and you’re probably not even listening anymore, but I really needed to say this out loud.” Amelia took a deep breath and went silent. Boromir seemed surprised, bordering on shocked. “I just wanted you to know that, so… Goodnight, I suppose. And do me a favor and get a shave.” Amelia rose up and went back after Aragorn, leaving Boromir alone with his thoughts on the riverbank, looking awfully out of place. 

“Aragorn?” She mumbled to Isildur’s heir when she returned. “What does ‘Aiano’ mean?” Aragorn was sitting and sharpening his sword when she dumped down beside him.  
“I am not so well versed in the quenya tongue as I am in Sindarin.” He answered. “It is an old, almost forgotten language… only the Lady Galadriel and a few others like her speak it fluently now, but I believe it means something like ‘stranger’ or ‘foreigner’. Why do you ask?”  
“Oh… no reason at all. Think I overheard it or something.” Aragorn didn’t inquire any further, even though it was a rotten lie and Amelia resolved to going to sleep as quickly as possible, since she had a proper bed to do it in. The elves immediately took her clothes away for washing as she had asked them to earlier and she felt no shame in flaunting around in her underwear in front of the Fellowship. Propriety wasn’t something she cared much about. She didn’t do much flaunting though, but instead slipped under her covers and fell asleep to the sound of singing elves and Samwise adding his own verse about Gandalf’s magnificent fireworks.


	12. Shattered Semblance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.”  
> \- C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair

Amelia was torn out of turbulent dreams when a hand shook her so roughly she nearly fell out of her bed. She noticed that her chest was heaving, deeply and quickly, that her palms were sweaty and fisting the fine sheets and that her mouth had been open, as if she had been yelling. She closed it shut and blinked at her bleary surroundings. Merry and Pippin, both with messy hair, were sitting on her bed beside her, with large eyes and she saw that the entire Fellowship was awake and staring at her, most still in their beds.  
“What are you staring at?” She asked, but her voice broke in the first word and she had to clear her throat.  
“You were having a nightmare.” Legolas explained with concern. “Do you not remember?” Amelia shook her head slowly and looked at the others.  
“What did you dream about?” Pippin asked, seemingly not understanding that Amelia couldn’t remember.  
“I haven’t got the foggiest, Pippin.” Amelia rubbed her face with her hand.  
“Well, whatever it was, it made you scream bloody murder.” Gimli grumbled from where he had pulled his sheets up to cover his head. Amelia shuffled uncomfortably, trying to banish the sleep fully from her limbs.  
“Sorry about that.” She made her voice purposefully right. “You guys go back to sleep, alright? I’ll just… take a walk. It helps me think.” Then, suddenly, she smirked. “Ironically, it’s what got me into this mess to begin with.”  
Her clothes had yet to be returned to her, since it was still in the middle of the night, but a flowing, red dress had been lain out for her, draped elegantly over a chair. Amelia wasn’t stupid enough to assume that the elves had chosen the color only because it would look good on her, even if it did. All inhabitants of Lothlórien wore white, gold or blue colors. Red would mark her as a foreigner to them.  
“So, they colorcode their guests.” Amelia mumbled as she strode down the stair leading to the forest floor, with bare feet and loose hair. Her underwear and the dress was all she wore. “That didn’t happen canonically for sure.”  
Amelia didn’t get much thinking done, wandering in the forest. Rather, it was as if all thoughts fled from her mind as her feet carried her where they willed her to go, her eyes saw what they wanted to see and her world shrunk until it was just her in a red dress, wandering through the most beautiful forest ever seen by mortal eyes, in the quiet hours before dawn comes to the world.  
Then, after an indeterminate amount of time spent wandering Lothlórien, she caught sight of something white and blinked, coming back into reality. It had moved between the trees and Amelia was reminded of the first time she had seen an elf. Then, it came again, a white figure with hair like a river of gold walking among the mallorns, her back turned towards Amelia. She got the distinct sense that Galadriel’s appearance to her was not one of coincidence and, reluctantly, followed the Lady of Light through the woods at a good distance, neither one of them calling out to the other. Then, Galadriel went down a staircase and Amelia momentarily lost sight of her until she reached the stair herself and stopped abruptly.  
She knew the place Galadriel had led her to. It was the location of her mirror.  
“Why am I here?” Her voice was hard as Galadriel poured water into the basin and locked eyes with Amelia.  
“Many have tried to ask you that question and guess at the answer themselves… but do you know the answer yourself?” Galadriel asked in her serene voice and Amelia gave her no answer. Only a cold look. “Look into the mirror… And I may offer you a glimpse of the path you have walked up until now and some of what it may yet come to give you.” Amelia narrowed her eyes at the elf. She would turn and leave if the Lady of Light ordered her to do something, but if it was an offer that she could voluntarily walk away from, then perhaps she would be more inclined to take it. Remembering the horrifying visions that Frodo had seen himself, she hesitated, but curiosity got the better of her and she stepped forwards, slowly, under Galadriel’s scrutiny and stood in front of the mirror, gazing down into it. She did not bend over, but stood tall and stiffly, only bending her head downwards.  
For a single moment of silence, all she saw was her own reflection, looking up at her, but then the depths of the water swirled, writhed and shaped itself into an image of her own past.  
She was twelve and young of heart, furiously scribbling down notes in class as she tried to copy down each of the teacher’s words. She was one of the only students, alongside a few others, who paid enough attention to such detail. Her hair was greasy and her sleeves were so long that she had to roll them up to free her hands for writing. Someone threw a paper ball at her head and she glared at them. Then, the water rippled and she was seventeen, swimming in a public swimming pool and shrieking as she came under the combined assault of Sebastian and Tobias splashing at her. She laughed and dived, cutting herself off from the rest of the world and she smiled. She wore purple goggles.  
The images came more rapidly, of her first day as a barista, of thanksgiving with her father and extended family and finally, herself lying on her back next to a campfire and staring upwards at the starry sky, the Fellowship lying around her.  
Then came one that she didn’t recognize and her eyes widened slightly in alarm. It was her own face, snarling in aggression and swinging Aeglos wildly. Her hair was in a ponytail, but it was loose and she had blood dripping down the side of her face. She stood on a slope covered in brown leaves, surrounded by trees, but Amelia couldn’t see what she was hacking so furiously at.  
Then, the scenery changed, but the new one was more of a flash than an image. It was her own face, her eyes drooping, her lips parted, and her sweaty skin having a grey pallor. She looked like she was dead and that unsettled Amelia more than she could say.  
The final image was the longest one. It was a street in a city, with white cobblestone and white houses and market stalls, but it was devoid of any people. It looked desolate, recently abandoned, but even without any inhabitants the solid, strong architecture was impressive. Amelia assumed that it was Osgiliath or Minas Tirith, but then, she noticed another thing. Black drapings hung from every window. In the distance, flags and pennants bore black cloth as well. It was a city in mourning, with a crushed spirit. Then, the image faded and Amelia was looking into her own blue eyes once again.  
Her face snapped up to see Galadriel watching her closely. Amelia met her gaze unflinchingly.  
“That pretty much tells me nothing.” She knew that she was being rude, but couldn’t help it. The image of her own body kept flashing behind her eyes and it didn’t do much to calm her nerves. “I mean yeah, sure, I’m gonna get in a fight and probably die in the process, I don’t need a magic mirror to tell you that.” She snapped and Galadriel didn’t answer her. She took a deep breath and looked down. “That was out of line.”  
“The mirror shows us many things.” Galadriel stated and broke eye contact with Amelia to look up towards the treetops. “We may all spy into the future, but to interpret it quickly turns into guesswork.” Amelia shook her head and took a step backwards.  
“You’re… that’s not the future.” She hissed angrily. “My future is not determined by… by fate or destiny or any of that!” She lowered her voice. “I make my own choices.”  
“Indeed you do, Amelia Aiano.” Galadriel took a small step forwards, resting her hands on either side of her mirror. Amelia caught sight of Nenya twinkling like a fallen star on Galadriel’s hand. “As one of the very few in Middle-Earth, you are free to forge your own future. That is what makes you such a danger.” Galadriel turned her palms towards the mirror. “When I attempt to look in the mirror, I see many things, but you are not one of them.”  
“So I’m an enigma to you.” Amelia felt oddly triumphant. “An unknown. And you don’t like it.”  
“I will not deny that it brings me unease.” Galadriel bowed her golden head. “I ask you only to consider this; be weary of choices and their consequences. They are rarely what you expect.”  
“Sometimes, all you can do is what you think is right, damn the consequences all to hell.” Amelia backed away, turned and fled from Galadriel, who had her eyes trained on the human until she disappeared amidst the trees.  
Amelia ran. Ran from Galadriel and her mirror, ran from the Fellowship of the Ring, ran from Middle-Earth and the image of her death, but they all followed her, weighing her down like boulders she was unable to put off her shoulders. She stumbled and fell, as long as she was, golden leaves getting caught in her hair. No one came to help her up as she pulled herself up and collapsed between two white treeroots, finally allowing herself to sob to her heart’s content and still, the elves sung, their voices echoing around and within Amelia.  
When her tears were spent and dried, when it seemed as if she had been sitting and sobbing into her hands for hours, she resolved to staring into nothingness, letting her chin rest on her knees. Then, when it seemed as if she was going to sit there for all eternity, her body jerked and she got to her feet, painstakingly slow. With stiff movements, she made her way back to the canopy the Fellowship had been assigned to, getting a few odd looks from passing elves on the way. When she came up the staircase, her face as pale as marble and her fingertips and toes blue from the chill, she saw Merry, Pippin, Gimli and Aragorn arguing amongst themselves in low voices, but they stopped when they saw her.  
“Amelia!” Pippin exclaimed and Aragorn raised his eyebrows at her.  
“You’ve been gone for hours.” He called to her and she pointedly ignored him, heading straight for her own bed and crawling into it, wishing that it could hide her from everything evil in the world. 

When Amelia woke, the events of the night seemed silly and insignificant. The others worried about her, the hobbits especially so, but she waved off their concerns, insisting that she was fine. When Aragorn pressed her on the issue, she refused to budge, pushing him away. Gimli was quick and glad to put the matter to rest and quickly launched into an epic tale of how his father had been a part of the expedition to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. Amelia was only too happy to let him distract her, even if she felt like correcting the dwarf when he swore up and down that it was a member of the company and not a human man who had slain Smaug.  
He kept telling her stories as breakfast was served and Amelia was glad to pull on her normal clothes. The elves had even mended the tears in her sweater and supplied another pair of socks along with the old ones.  
“Amelia.” She heard Frodo’s voice say her name and she turned towards him. He was standing a few feet away from her chair, giving her a nervous look. “Can I talk to you?” Amelia had meant to talk to Aragorn and Boromir as soon as she could tell Gimli to be silent, but when Frodo requested a moment of her time she immediately stood up and followed him, ignoring Gimli completely in the process. Frodo walked slowly and led her on a destinationless walk on the paths once again.  
“You wanted to talk?” Amelia broke the heavy silence between them and Frodo sighed.  
“You’ve said that you know… things. That you can’t predict the future, but… you know of it.” Amelia nodded slowly, disliking the direction of their conversation. “Did you know that Gandalf…” Amelia couldn’t lie to him, despite her promise to herself that she would. Had it been anyone else, she would have lied to their face, but Frodo deserved the truth.  
“I did.” She confessed quietly and Frodo’s eyebrows knitted together. “And, if you believe that, you have to believe that there was nothing I could have done.”  
“You think I blame you?” Amelia stared at the hobbit, who seemed lost in thought once again. “I saw the balrog and… a warning would have done us well, but… I don’t think there was anything you could have done.” Every word seemed to pain Frodo, but they had the opposite effect on Amelia. His words seemed to chip away at the guilt writhing constantly within her, piece by piece.  
“Thanks.” Amelia meant it when she said it. “But… since you’re so nice about not blaming me, I think I should return the favor. You might have made the decision to go to Moria, Frodo, but it was the right one.” Frodo looked away, but Amelia pressed on. “If you hadn’t, we’d all be dead, Gandalf included. You didn’t condemn him, Frodo, you… you saved us. Sometimes, there simply aren’t any good decisions and all you can do is try to lessen the harm you cause.” Frodo nodded slowly, but Amelia got the feeling that she hadn’t gotten through to him. “Now, I’m really sorry, but I need to talk to Aragorn. Think you’ll be alright?” The hobbit didn’t answer and didn’t follow her as she returned to where the Fellowship ate breakfast.  
She saw Boromir engrossed in a conversation with Legolas and she overheard enough to know that he was attempting to assure the elf that aging and inevitable death was not as bad as it seemed.  
“Aragorn! Boromir!” She called and they looked up as she strode into the hall, her steps long. “Get yourselves up and about. I need to talk to you.”  
“Can a man not eat his food in peace?” Boromir grumbled and Amelia grinned at him, feeling the lightest she had since Moria.  
“Not today, he can’t. Besides, you’re nearly finished!”  
“Is something wrong?” Aragorn asked as he stood up and Amelia shook her head.  
“No, no, I just need to ask you both something. It’s pretty important. So get up!” She clapped her hands at Boromir, who had begun to nod off and she noticed Legolas trying to suppress a smile at her antics. Aragorn, who was wide awake and ready for the day, waited patiently as Boromir shoved one last bite of raspberries and eggs in before he stood up to follow her. Amelia noticed that, for once, he was actually not carrying his broad sword, but the horn of Gondor hadn’t left his belt.  
Amelia chattered away as the two men followed her outside.  
“So, Boromir, I already told you that Moria was my first fight and all, done deal, we’re over that.” Aragorn looked a bit confused, but not surprised. “And I got through that alright, considering, but I might not be so lucky next time and I know there will be a next time, remember?” She tapped her temple. “So, you two use swords, all high and holy, so I figured ‘well, shoot, I can’t keep placing my bets on adrenaline’, so…” She stopped her rapid speech and whirled around. “Can you teach me how to use a sword?”  
“You needed only ever ask.” Aragorn had a hint of a smile, though Boromir looked a bit more serious.  
“I’m sure Aragorn can teach you himself.” He stated and Amelia slapped her forehead.  
“Well, sure he could, but I’m asking you too. Make of that what you will. And you taught Merry and Pippin pretty well, wrestling not included.” Boromir hesitated. “Would it help if I promised not to tackle you?” Boromir sighed.  
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”  
“Nope. I’m going to keep pestering and bugging and annoying the living daylights out of you until you give up.”  
“So nothing’s going to change then.” Amelia snorted at him, unable to wrap her head around his reasonably witty comeback.  
“Buddy, you’ve seen me in my pleasant moods so far. I’m told I’m as stubborn as a mule once I’ve selected a victim of my malicious machinations.”  
“On that, at least, we can agree.” Amelia was grinning by then, the smile lighting up her face and easing the tension that had been collecting there in the times where she had only frowned, glared or contemplated matters, without finding any reason to smile. Aragorn was watching them in fascination.  
“Does that mean you’ll agree to hack at me with a sword until I yield?”  
“When you frame it that way, Miss, how can I refuse?”  
“Amelia.”  
“Pardon?”  
“Name’s Amelia. All that ‘Miss’ and ‘My Lady’ and titles and eurgh. Not really my cup of tea. Besides, if you call me that, I’m going to start calling you something like Lord Broody McBroodypants, and then you’ll be sorry.”  
“I do not brood.”  
“You totally brood. And when you do, you have this set jaw and sour expression, like you’re prepared to duel someone for nicking your bagel.”  
“You have a strange perception of what gives cause for a duel.”  
“I prefer the term ‘unique’, but sure, whatever rows your boat. Thanks for the talk. Real interesting. Did you save anymore bacon for me?”  
“We travel with four hobbits.” Aragorn interjected dryly. “I don’t believe that leaving leftovers is a particular skill of theirs.”  
“Then I’d better get in there quick. I appreciate it and besides, since I’m always so annoying, you can enjoy attacking me with your oversized butterknives at least once a day.” Amelia skipped back towards the hall in mighty high spirits. She thought she heard Aragorn saying something to Boromir, but when she looked back with a smile they were following her at a slower pace, in silence.  
“Did you guys save anything for me?” Amelia dumped into her seat and Gimli raised his bushy eyebrows at her.  
“Someone’s certainly cheery today.”  
“But I won’t be for much longer if I don’t get something to eat. Pass the eggs, will you?” 

That evening, when she went to sleep sore and bruised after Aragorn’s expertly and Boromir’s decent tutoring, she had no nightmares and slept soundly through the night.


	13. A Dream of a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Some gifts are big.  
> Others are small.  
> But the ones that come from the heart  
> are the best gifts of all.”  
> -Tinku Razoria

The days in Lothlórien flowed like they had in Imladris; calmly they passed and Amelia was content to live them rather than count them. Her days had turned into a pleasant routine by the third. She rose when she pleased, ate breakfast with the Fellowship, where Gimli and Legolas would often depart early to wander the Golden Wood and converse with the Galadhrim. Then, she would train with Aragorn or Boromir, depending on whether she wished to do so before or after lunch, and she would read, wander around or even dance along with other elven ladies on top of hills and slopes covered in snowthorn and elanor. She laughed and felt her heart lift after the darkness of Moria’s mines. Her nightmares ceased and, for a time, she was content.  
She enjoyed two weeks of blessed complacency, even growing to not feel as much hate for the dresses offered to her by the elves as she felt a strong dislike, before a nightmare woke her up again, only she remembered what it had been about and no one had woken her but herself. She had not screamed or cried in her sleep, for it had not been of pain and battle, only ominous silence and a white city draped in solemn, black cloth. She had not jerked awake or fisted her bedsheets, but merely sat up as soon as she woke, eyes wide and mind wary and alert.  
_Remember…_  
The whisper could have been the wind rattling the golden leaves on the roof, but Amelia recognized an undertone that only the Lady of Light had ever had in her voice and she knew that she had not misheard or imagined it. At first, she groaned and clutched her head with her right hand, but then she sighed and rested her chin on her folded hands, thinking hard about why Lady Galadriel would have reminded her of that vision in particular.  
“A white city in black…” Amelia knew that an entire city in mourning meant that someone important had died and thus, she could only conclude that it was Minas Tirith and not Osgiliath. “Denethor’s mind went haywire. They’d be kind of obligated to mourn him.” Amelia mumbled to herself, feeling that it was easier to air her thoughts than to keep them trapped within her own head, where they could swirl and grow, burdening her further. She could not see an explanation for the silence however, since it made the grief in the air tangible and real. The people weren’t putting up black banners out of obligation. Their loss were felt keenly by them all. Then the realization struck and Amelia’s eyes snapped to Boromir’s sleeping form.  
“Of course…” She mumbled. It made sense for the city to mourn him sincerely; he was a steadfast general, a good leader of their armies and a friend to the people, as well as the heir to Gondor if Aragorn didn’t step forth.  
He might as well have been a prince, loved by the people that he defended. Then, Amelia remembered the cloven horn of Gondor in Denethor’s weathered hands and felt her throat constrict unexpectedly.  
The guilt of Gandalf’s death had been bad enough and it had required Frodo’s help and Lórien’s tranquility for it to heal.  
She might not have much fondness for the son of Gondor, but she didn’t want him to die.  
“Don’t even think about it.” She hissed at herself and she heard Merry, who was the one sleeping nearest, stir from his slumber. Quickly, she pulled her covers up and turned away from him with closed eyes. To all who looked at her, it would look as if she had been asleep for hours. Finally, when it seemed as if she had gotten stuck on an ultimatum, she fell into an exhausted and uneasy sleep, only managing a few more hours before she woke yet again.  
That day, the sound of a distant instrument, somewhere between a fiddle, bells and a violin sounded throughout the forest. Amelia flicked her head at it, as if it was a particularly annoying fly. She had been in a bad mood ever since she woke again and had been quick to throw on her pants and undershirt. She walked barefoot through the forest, looking for all intents and purposes as if she was heading off to take on the forces of Mordor herself, in an outfit that would be considered little more than undergarments.  
“You missed your lesson.” Aragorn’s voice was curious rather than derogatory, even if it was chiding her gently. Amelia had stepped down a few steps and had nearly run into him.  
“Aragorn?” Amelia nearly growled his name out and he looked a bit taken aback. “What would you do if you had to make a choice. One where, on the one hand, you had to choose between how you knew things were supposed to go, even if it felt hella wrong, and on the other, you could just roll with your gut and gamble with the fate of hundreds of people?” Then, she stopped and stared at him. “By all the… You do have to make such a choice! Kind of. Not really, but you do.” Amelia had remembered Aragorn’s choice as to whether he ought to doom Arwen to mortality or not. It wasn’t the same, but in a way it was. “Okay, let me rephrase; you have to choose whether a person lives or dies. If they survive, it’s gonna be good for a lot of people, but you know that it’s the wrong choice and it might end up going all sorts of wrong. If they die, a lot of things are going to be put right, but it’s going to hurt a lot of people.”  
“You’re asking me this because another one of the Fellowship…” Aragorn began and Amelia waved her hands.  
“Maybe, maybe not. Don’t answer based on that. Just roll with me here.” Aragorn hesitated and Amelia sighed. “Please?”  
“You said it yourself.” He answered. “If they are fated to die, it might be best to let them…” Then, the corner of his mouth turned upwards. “But you never seemed to care much for fate.” Amelia stared at him as if he had suddenly declared that every day was Christmas, that he has just gifted her the sun and stars.  
“That’s right I don’t!” She shouted, making a few birds fly up from their branches in fright. “Screw fate, destiny and the future, all of them!” She ran her hands through her hair and gave Aragorn a look with her slightly crazed eyes. “I need to attack something with a sword.”  
Aragorn was only too happy to oblige her and he led her back to their housing to gather equipment.  
Arwen’s style had been fluent, elegant and Amelia had adopted many of her traits. Aragorn’s style was difficult to pinpoint, since it seemed as if he utilized both elvish and human style and something that was entirely his own, something that would throw any adversary off balance as they tried to determine his moves and got their hesitancy rewarded with a well-placed beheading or stabbing through the stomach.  
Blocking her blows and disarming her was something Aragorn could have done blindfolded, with one hand tied on his back in high heels.  
“You let your anger cloud your judgment.” Aragorn told her time and again. “That might save your life against an orc,” He whirled out of the way as Amelia tried to slash his side, “But it ruins whatever technique you might have picked up. Focus on what you know will work, not what you feel will work. Listen to your instincts, for they might save your life, but do not let them rule you.” It continued like that for two hours, corrections to her stance, her assumptions, her everything.  
Amelia was beginning to regret ever asking him to teach her in the first place, but she knew that she wouldn’t regret it once she got in an actual fight again.  
She swore as Aragorn disarmed her once again and went to pick up Aeglos from the ground.  
“Aragorn?” Amelia asked as she picked up her blade and studied the runes on it. “Do you believe in destiny?” There was a heavy silence, where Aragorn seemed to think closely on his answer.  
“I believe in the strength of our hearts and righteousness of our cause.” He finally said. “Fate is irrelevant to me.”  
And thus, they resumed their lesson. 

All in all, they dwelled in Lothlórien for much longer than Amelia ever would have thought. She found out the date was February 16th the day of their final departure from Lothlórien and she felt as optimistic as ever when they all walked down to the river that ran out into the Anduin, to say their final goodbyes to Lórien and her Lady of Light.  
Galadriel arrived on the river, on a boat with the shape of a swan, with a golden harp in her hands and she sang her farewell to them as they stood and waited for her to come ashore. In her long hair was placed a circlet of golden flowers and her dress shone like freshly fallen snow.

__

I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:  
Of wind I sang, a wind there came, and in the branches blew.  
Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,  
And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.  
Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,  
In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.  
There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,  
And here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears.  
O Lórien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;  
The leaves are falling in the stream, the river flows away.  
O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore  
And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.  
But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,  
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?

It was a song of sorrow, but its beauty overshadowed its sadness as Galadriel and Celeborn, who had also been in the boat, walked ashore and stood before the Fellowship, who awaited their words in silence. Then, elves came forth, bearing light cloaks with green brooches, shaped like leaves twined in silver strands, and they fastened them around the necks of each member of the Fellowship.  
“Never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people.” Celeborn said thoughtfully. “May these cloaks help shield you from unfriendly eyes.”  
“Before you depart our lands, we have brought you gifts in our ship, to remind you of your time beneath our trees.” Galadriel spoke and her servants carried forth bundles. They were also given three boats and when Amelia expressed doubts that they would fit or that the boats would be able to sail under their weight, she was assured that it would take the weight of many men to sink just one of the white boats.  
To Aragorn, from Galadriel, was a brilliant gemstone on a chain, the Elfstone, that he put around his neck and Amelia caught a brief glimpse of the silvery Evenstar on his chest as well. Celeborn gifted him a fine, wide knife. To Boromir was a belt made of leaves of gold, a gift that he was honored to accept and he bowed to the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien after he received it. To Legolas, a quiver filled with the finest arrows and a bow strung with elven hair. To Merry and Pippin, handcrafted belts and a small dagger for each. To Sam, elven rope that would never snap unless it was cut and a small box with the letter “G” on the lid. It was filled with light soil and a single mallorn seed. For Frodo, a phial filled with the light of Eärendil, the most beloved star of the elves on the earth.  
Then, Galadriel stopped in front of Amelia and her old eyes seemed to pierce Amelia. She didn’t flinch from Galadriel’s searching gaze.  
“For you, Amelia Jones…” A tall guard stepped forth, carrying a small, grey box covered in velvet. “We have applied our best crafters in the making of this. This ring, whom we call cilya, the ring of choices, I have blessed. ” The elf opened the lid and Amelia was momentarily puzzled to see it’s contents. It was a white ring of what seemed to be mithril, decorated with elvish words inlaid in silver. She had never been much of a jewelry person, but she accepted it with an inclination of her head, and yet it seemed that Galadriel wasn’t quite finished. “May it show you the way when times are uncertain.” She wished Amelia ominously and the human blinked at the elf, but she had already moved onto Gimli and voiced her uncertainty as to which gift she ought to present him with.  
Amelia had to turn away to hide her smile from the dwarf. The ring was, of course, perfectly fit and she was proud to put her ring on her left ringfinger.  
Aragorn rowed the boat holding Frodo and Sam and Boromir the one holding Merry and Pippin. That left Amelia in the one rowed by Legolas. The elf sat in the back, then Amelia in the middle and Gimli in the front. The dwarf had a reverent expression on his face and Amelia knew that he was still overwhelmed by Galadriel’s generosity and benevolence.  
“Lembas!” Legolas held up one of the small, light pieces of bread from the packs packed in the boats. Gimli, Amelia, Merry, Pippin, Sam and Frodo were all sitting in the boats, waiting for Legolas, Boromir and Aragorn. “Elvish waybread.” Legolas nipped at the bread as Merry and Pippin watched him with interest. “One small bite is enough to fill the stomach of a grown man.” Pippin nodded politely and Amelia watched him and his best friend closely.  
“How many did you eat?” Merry mumbled to Pippin.  
“Four.” He answered and Amelia stifled a laugh at the two hobbits. Then, she sobered and pulled her backpack off her shoulders. She glanced at the packs of lembas and made some quick math as to how much lembas how many people would need for a certain amount of time. She grabbed two packs of it when no one looked and stuffed them hastily into her backpack. Then, she got the feeling that someone was watching her and she looked up to see Galadriel watching her from the riverbank. Amelia looked down, breaking eye contact and she sat in her boat obediently with her hands in her lap, uncharacteristically quiet.  
As they set off from the shore, rows of elves watching them from the bank, Amelia looked back to see Galadriel’s hand raised in farewell. Golden leaves fell on the river as Legolas, Boromir and Aragorn rowed them down the stream, away from their sanctuary of nearly a month, and Amelia shuddered slightly as she felt as if she was slipping out of a dream, a dream that she didn’t want to wake from.  
“This is awful.” She groaned loudly and she heard Legolas sigh wistfully.  
“The woods of Lothlórien may be elven lands, but perhaps we shall return one day.”  
“What? No, I meant this boat. I feel like I’m going to get a dip in the Anduin any second. I’d prefer riding a horse compared to this!” Amelia sat stiffly in the boat, not daring to lean or turn for fear of falling into the water. She could feel the river lapping at the sides of the boat and she shuddered dramatically.  
Legolas, Boromir and Aragorn were all strong of arm and they rowed with rueful determination and thus, they quickly reached the main river and Lothlórien became only a distant glimpse of gold among green trees. After the warmth of the forest, being out on the river felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on Amelia.  
Amelia got the uncomfortable feeling that they were both being watched and followed. When she dared glance backwards, she couldn’t see anything other than a few logs floating in the wake and the green oaks on both sides of the river. She started feeling stiff and cold, but knew that she couldn’t stretch, since she was sitting in a canoe.  
As Gimli revealed that Galadriel had given him three hairs and not merely one, Amelia looked back to see Legolas smiling warmly at the dwarf and she knew that the two would become good friends if they weren’t already.  
She gasped slightly as a flock of birds flew up from the trees on the eastern shore, as if something had spooked them and tried to relieve the tension in her body by rolling her shoulders. She had changed back into the clothes she had worn for months by then, even if their state was far more ragged than it had been when she arrived in Middle-Earth, and her sword lay across her lap. She glanced down at Cilya and saw it gleaming faintly. She looked away, then rested her eyes on Boromir’s broad back and, once again, doubts began to gnaw at her. 

When evening began to fall, Aragorn steered his boat towards the eastern shore and Boromir and Legolas followed him, jumping out of the boats to pull them up on the shore. Amelia was glad to get out of her seat and jump around on her feet, trying to get her blood rushing once again. Stars began to gleam in the sky, grey clouds covering parts of it and Aragorn warned the Fellowship not to start any fires, for fear of alerting unfriendly eyes to their position. He gave Merry, Pippin and Sam an especially stern look as he said it.  
The lembas was much lighter and sweeter than Amelia had expected. It was true that, after one small bite she felt as full as she had after eating from the feasts served to her in Rivendell and Lórien.  
“Only the queen may give lembas as a gift to travelers.” Legolas told her as they shared a piece of lembas.  
Merry, Pippin and Gimli had all fallen asleep already.  
“Fancy.” Amelia muttered and glanced over at where Boromir was looking out over the river, half-hidden behind a large rock. With a frown, she saw Aragorn approach him. She vaguely heard the words “Gollum” and “clever”, but she was too far away to hear their full sentences. With a frown, she got to her feet and approached them. Then, her eyes caught a whiff of movement and she saw a grey hand, with long fingers disappear behind a log floating on the river.  
“And if he alerts the enemy to our whereabouts?” Boromir asked Aragorn as she slowly walked towards them. Then, he said something that Amelia couldn’t quite hear and turned towards Aragorn. She could hear Sam attempt to get Frodo to eat something or at least sleep, but Frodo pushed him away. “Minas Tirith is a safer road. You know that.” Boromir told Aragorn, who didn’t answer him. “From there we can regroup. Strike out at Mordor from a place of strength.” He spoke intently, once again attempting to direct the Fellowship towards the white city.  
“There is no strength in Gondor that can avail us.” Aragorn answered him quietly.  
“You were quick enough to trust the elves!” Boromir exclaimed, raising his voice. Amelia sped up her pace. “Have you so little faith in your own people? Yes, there is weakness, there is frailty, but there is courage also, and honor to be found in men, but you will not see that!” Aragorn turned and tried to walk away, but Boromir grabbed him roughly before he could. “You are afraid!” He accused angrily. “All your life, you have hidden in the shadows, scared of who you are, what you are!”  
“Hey!” Amelia hissed as she rushed forwards to break them apart. “Knock it off, will you?”  
“I will not lead the Ring within a hundred leagues of your city!” Aragorn suddenly hissed at Boromir before he turned away and Amelia was tempted to whop him on the head as he passed. Instead, she turned back to Boromir, who was glaring daggers at Aragorn’s back.  
“One day, can we please go one day without you two butting heads?” She threw her arms out. “Evidently not! For God’s sake, Boromir, for a man who claims that the men of Gondor are courageous and honorable, you sure do a poor job of showing it!” She stomped back to her seat beside Legolas, chest heaving as if she had run a marathon.  
“Is something wrong?” She heard Legolas ask her innocently and she snorted.  
“Nope. I’m just peachy.”


	14. The Horn of Gondor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.”  
> -William Jennings, Bryan

The dense forest gave way to barren cliffs, rising on both sides of the river, and Amelia felt that that was both a good and a bad thing. It would make it difficult for anyone to follow them on foot without being spotted, but at the same time it didn’t give her much for look at either. That is, until she heard Gimli gasp and she looked up and promptly lost her tongue at the sight herself.  
Two enormous statues hewn from the cliffs, as tall as two balrogs on top of each other, stood to greet them, each one with one of their arms stretched out as if to ward off intruders. The size of one of their feet alone was bigger than a mansion.   
“The Argonath.” Legolas said. “We approach the falls of Rauros.” In the distance, the sound of a roaring waterfall could be heard. Amelia tore her eyes away to look at the other two boats. Merry and Pippin were gaping openly, Aragorn looked fascinated and Boromir looked awed at the impressive sight.   
“Wow.” Amelia breathed, unable to find any words that did the two statues justice.   
Their three boats emerged out onto a lake where, at the opposite end, Amelia could see the churning falls of Rauros and not merely hear them. Aragorn steered their procession to the right once again and they pulled the boats ashore. Amelia jumped out of her boat and saw Boromir looking down, clutching the sides of the boat he was still in as if he had some physical pain he had yet to speak of.   
“You alright there?” She asked him carefully, weary of how he would act after their spat the night before. He glanced up at her briefly, straightened his back and stepped out of the boat, helping to pull it ashore and Amelia exhaled through her nose. Stumps of what seemed like an old ruin dotted the riverbank and Aragorn quickly got a small fire going, using it to dry their wet clothes. Amelia dumped down close to the fire, briefly pulling out her black gloves to hold her palms out towards the fire.   
“We cross the lake at nightfall.” Aragorn declared as he lifted their sparse items out of a canoe. “Hide the boats and continue on foot. We approach Mordor from the north.”   
“Oh yes?” Gimli challenged and Aragorn glanced at him. “Just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil, an impassable labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks, and after that, it gets even better!" Amelia rolled her eyes at the dwarf. “Festering, stinking marshlands far as the eye can see.”   
“Well, if you’d like to turn back…” Amelia let her voice trail off suggestively and Gimli straightened his back.   
“Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens!” He exclaimed proudly.  
“I suggest you get some rest to recover your strength, master dwarf.” Aragorn added and Gimli looked deeply insulted.   
“Recover my…” He grumbled at Aragorn, who pointedly ignored him. Legolas, who had been staring into the trees, suddenly rushed over to Aragorn and told him something Amelia couldn’t hear. Aragorn sounded like he turned him down but Legolas gave a retort that gave him pause. As she attempted to listen in as discretely as possible, Amelia tied her hair back in the same low tail she had gotten the habit of sporting. Before she had joined the Fellowship, she had preferred to have her hair hanging loose around her shoulders, but it posed a problem whenever she got into a fight or a strong wind whipped it into her eyes while wandering the lands.   
“Something draws near. I can feel it.” She heard Legolas say and her eyes suddenly snapped to where she had seen Boromir sitting, sharpening his sword. He was gone, having left his shield behind.   
“Where’s Frodo?” She heard Sam exclaim in alarm as she sprung to her feet. She swore loudly, pulled her gloves back on and rushed over to Boromir’s shield. She grabbed it from the ground and the pebbles on the riverbank flew as she ran off into the woods, Aragorn calling her name behind her.   
“Boromir’s played by Sean Bean, you dolt, he’ll never survive this!” Amelia yelled back, without realizing that her words would sound like pure nonsense to the rest of the Fellowship.   
Belatedly, she realized that she had no idea where she was going and she drew her sword with her right hand, having placed it back in its scabbard as soon as she had stepped ashore. She held Boromir’s red shield in her left hand as she rushed through the woods, caring only to find the son of Gondor. Some small part of her wondered why she was suddenly so intent on finding him, but the bigger part of her told the smaller part to hold its tongue. Behind her, she could hear Merry, Pippin and Aragorn calling out for her, calling out for Frodo and even Boromir’s name was mentioned a few times.   
Suddenly, Amelia stumbled and rolled down a hill, leaves getting caught in her hair and tearing strands out of her ponytail, but she barely noticed it as she rushed onwards. She had left her coat and her backpack on the shore, having forgotten about them as she ran off into the forest.   
Then, she heard distant shouting and she sprinted in the direction that it seemed to come from, a branch smacking into her face and scraping her cheek lightly. Her lungs burned from the extortion, but still she willed herself to go faster, running through the trees as if her life depended on it. Her mad dash through the forest would be unlikely to carry her in the right direction, but she did not think of it as she sprinted, all sense gone from her head.   
She rushed up a slope and came to an abrupt halt. She just managed to catch a glimpse of Frodo pushing the ring down his finger and disappearing. Boromir had been crawling towards him, grabbing wildly at the band of gold as he scrambled towards him.   
The Boromir that Amelia knew was a proud, stubborn man. The Boromir that she was staring at, unable to shake herself out of her fixation, was a madman who had abandoned all dignity. His eyes smoldered, as if he was possessed by some force of malice, and Amelia knew that that was exactly what he was.   
She sucked in a sharp breath as Boromir screamed a curse at Frodo, who had disappeared from sight, and Amelia saw leaves rustle without no wind. Then, Boromir was flipped backwards, as if he had been kicked in the head and he rolled down the slope. The dry leaves rustled once again as Frodo fled and then, there was only silence as Boromir lay on the ground, gasping for breath as he slowly pulled himself up. He gasped something and Amelia’s limbs unfroze as she slowly approached him, step by step.   
“What have I done…” With a start, Amelia realized that he was weeping. “Frodo, I’m sorry! Come back! I’m sorry!” He called hopelessly and clutched his head as he sat on his knees, mourning his own folly.   
“Boromir.” Amelia’s voice was much harsher than she had expected, but she felt like Boromir deserved it. He wasn’t completely innocent, even if it hadn’t been his intention to fall so far. He didn’t respond to her voice and she moved around him, since she had approached him from behind. Then, she stood still in front of him and looked down on him, feeling close to no compassion for him. Frodo was her friend and even the brief moment of struggling she had seen between him and Boromir was enough to make her heart grow cold towards him.   
“Boromir!” She snapped and the man raised his head up at her, desperation shining in his eyes. She gave him a long, hard stare, then broke eye contact by closing her eyes. “Damn it all. Knew I should have been watching you closer.” Boromir didn’t answer her, but merely made another sob. Amelia sheathed her sword and knelt down in front of him, blowing a wisp of hair out of her face. “Look. I don’t know what we are; friends, acquaintances, opponents, but I do know that you aren’t a bad man. Whether you’re a good one is… still up for debate, but… I’ve found that, when we really hit the bottom, we have the biggest opportunity to change.” She looked into his eyes. “So do me a favor and get up, yeah?” She held out her right hand and Boromir stared at it as if it was going to clench and punch him. Amelia waited impatiently, but then he took it hesitantly. “Thatta boy.” Amelia muttered and pulled him up. He stumbled and she grabbed his shoulder to steady him. She noticed that he was staring at her and she looked away. Then, her eyes widened in alarm.   
“Hey you!” A distant voice shouted. It was a hobbit’s voice. “Over here!” Her head whipped towards Boromir, who didn’t seem to have heard it yet.   
“Dear god, can’t you guys get anything done by yourselves?” She moaned. “Come on!” Then, Boromir’s eyes lit up with a spark of something as he too heard the yells and Amelia had to press herself to keep up with him. Despite her weeks in the wild, she still had quite a ways to go before she could keep up with Boromir’s stamina. She had completely forgotten that she still held Boromir’s shield in her left hand.   
“It’s working!” She heard Pippin’s voice shout in delight. It seemed quite close by then.   
“I know it’s working, run!” She heard Merry yell back and, finally, as she and Boromir ran up a dried out river, towards the ruins of an old stone bridge, she saw Merry and Pippin standing on the bridge, black shapes approaching them from both sides.   
The Uruk-Hai didn’t look like the orcs from Moria. The orcs from Khazad-Dûm had been small and slimy, with large eyes, and many of them hunchbacked. The Uruk-Hai were tall and bulging with muscles, their skin dark like leather and many with long, dark manes of hair. Their yellow eyes shone through their iron helmets, all bearing a white hand slapped crudely on the forehead.   
Boromir jumped in front of Merry and Pippin right as an orc got too close for comfort and the orc met its swift end at his blade. He threw a knife at another orc and hit it in the throat. Amelia chanted a steady “shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…” As she too leapt into the fray, keeping a watchful eye on the slopes for any orc with a bow, she drew Aeglos just in time to send it through the neck of an orc. It felt different than the Moria-orcs too. Amelia hated herself for thinking it, but those had been softer. Instead of charging off on her own, she resolved to staying close to Boromir, Merry and Pippin, who threw rocks at the orcs to distract them whenever they got an opening.   
Watching Boromir fight was inspiring and vaguely terrifying. The man was a monster in a fight, focused and determined. He swung his sword in wide arcs, using his weight and strength to maximum effect.   
Then, when it seemed as if the orcs came from all sides at once, Boromir drew the horn and let out three loud blasts. The sound seemed to cleave Amelia’s head, loud and clear as crystal, and it echoed throughout the forest. The sound itself was a testament to the might of men. The orcs slowed, hesitated, then charged on and began to press Boromir and Amelia backwards in their attempt to reach Merry and Pippin. When Amelia got distracted, Boromir had to throw an orc over his back to survive and Merry and Pippin tackled it, drawing the daggers given to them by Galadriel and stabbing it wildly through the head.   
“Run! Run!” Boromir shouted at the hobbits as more orcs poured down over the hill and Amelia scrambled backwards, almost falling onto her back. An orc leapt at her and she rolled, remembering not to block with her sword. Boromir stabbed it through the back and whirled around to slice open the throat of another. Amelia looked up from her spot on the ground, still crawling backwards, and then she saw it; an enormous orc emerging at the top of a hill too far away for her to reach in time, carrying a large, black bow in his hands. Boromir was too busy fighting to see it, even as Amelia gestured and screamed at it and him. It drew an arrow from its quiver and placed it on its bowstring, raising its weapon and Amelia barely realized that, in that moment, she made a decision. She rushed to her feet and tackled Boromir from the side as the arrow flew towards him and he grunted as he hit the ground, Amelia on top of him.  
“Thank me later!” Amelia snarled and raised her blade instinctively as she turned away to get up. That move saved her life, for another orc had just brought its scimitar down upon them. Her sword had, by chance, blocked it. “They have an archer!” She pointed towards the orc, who had readied yet another arrow and Amelia threw herself aside to avoid meeting an untimely end.   
Then, she lost of Boromir as her sight narrowed to encompass only her and the orcs. Her world became the fight. Her breath became her stubbornness. Her reason for existence became the next throat she slit, the next chest she stabbed, the next stomach she cut open to watch its guts spill out.  
It seemed the killing would never find its end, but then she caught sight of him again and hurried towards him, seeing Lurtz, for that was the name of the archer, even though she did not know that, ready another arrow and pull back the string. All sense abandoned her as she pushed herself to the limit and lunged at the same time Lurtz let go of his arrow. Instead of colliding with Boromir again, Amelia landed in front of him and her mouth widened as she felt as if someone had shoved her backwards roughly. Boromir shouted something, but Amelia couldn’t hear it over the snarling of the orcs. Then, pain exploded throughout her left shoulder as the feeling of an arrowhead lodged in her flesh and scraping against her bones finally took root and Amelia screamed, for she had never known a pain like it before. She staggered backwards and fell on her back, the black shaft, much thicker than she had expected, protruding from her shoulder like a flag. Her blood stained her sweater. The memory of her own dead face flashed behind her eyes and she caught Merry and Pippin’s horrified eyes. Then, her eyes flittered upwards and her fingers curled around the hilt of her sword, so tight that her knuckles turned white beneath her gloves.   
“No…” She whispered through the haze of pain. She could scarcely hear her own protest. She grasped the sword tighter as Merry and Pippin rushed towards her.   
“Amelia…” Merry gasped and she struggled to get up.   
“Help… me… up!” She hissed at him and Pippin opened his mouth to protest. She could hear Boromir’s sword clashing against the scimitars and swords of the orcs and she knew that Lurtz had plenty more arrows to shoot if he wished. “Now!” Hesitantly, Merry and Pippin grabbed one of her arms each and pulled her upwards and she cried out sharply from the pain. Then, with sweat pouring down her head, blood dripping from her nostrils and down the side of her face from another gash in her hairline, she stumbled to her feet and rushed forwards clumsily, past Boromir, Merry and Pippin, past the orcs that tried to stop her, straight towards Lurtz. Her left shoulder screamed in pain when she tried to cover her head with her shield and she resolved to holding it half up and ducking down behind it as she charged, a human battering ram. She heard Merry and Pippin crying out, but she ignored them, electing to put every ounce of energy left in her body to use against the one who had planted an arrow in her body. She felt the force of two arrows hitting the shield as she lunged through the air and crashed into the archer, her sword sinking through to the hilt. Lurtz roared and threw her off. She rolled, half of the shaft sticking out of her breaking off and then, she lay on her back on the forest floor again, tears of pain and fear leaking out of her eyes. Stubbornness took ahold of her again and she pushed herself up of her elbows with a groan. Black spots danced in her vision. She saw the shapes of Merry and Pippin being carried off distantly and Boromir shouted their names, but the orcs were overwhelming him, pressing him back and, though he clearly wished to do anything but, he was forced to focus on preserving his own life.   
Amelia felt a cold rush in her head, flowing downwards and her thoughts turned sluggish. She saw Lurtz pull back his bowstring and she knew that, since no one was there to stop it, the arrow would hit its mark and her pain would have been for naught.   
The distant cry of “Elendil!” reached her ears and she let her head fall backwards, staring up towards the sky. The sound of clashing blades and the sharp sound of swooshing arrows started to fade, but the pain refused to dim, sharp tendrils of it shooting through her body. Her entire left side was covered in blood by then. It ran down her left arm as well and dripped from her hand, wet and sticky.   
Then, Boromir’s face was hovering over her, but it was too fuzzy to make out his expression. Then, it was Aragorn. His mouth moved, but Amelia’s brain caught the words in a jumble, unable to understand them as the sentence they were. Amelia’s grip on Boromir’s shield and her sword loosened and voices buzzed in her ears.   
Then, someone was cutting in her, in the wound the arrow had left. Her mouth flew upon and an ungodly scream pierced the air. She had not been aware that she could even make such a sound. Them, finally, it disappeared, along with the presence of the arrowhead still lodged in her shoulder and Amelia wept like an infant in relief. Her lips were grey, her skin was pale and clammy and had she closed her eyes, her face would have been the one from Galadriel’s mirror. She clung to awareness as pain flared through her, even as her sight blurred and her hearing dimmed, and she refused to bend to the tempting numbness of losing consciousness.   
She choked and spluttered as something was forced down her throat. It tasted pleasant and invigorating and Amelia blinked as the trees came back into focus, Aragorn’s face hovering over hers.   
“More.” She choked out and Aragorn held the small vial to her lips once again. In little time, she had emptied the whole bottle and she gasped as her sight and hearing grew clear once again. “Hell was… hell was tha…”  
“Miruvor, a liquor of much vigor. I have carried it since Rivendell, in the hope that we would not have need of it.” Aragorn’s word were low and rushed. Amelia’s shoulder was still bleeding, but no arrowhead or shaft sat in it any longer and Amelia realized that it had literally been cut out of her. “You have lost much blood.”   
“No shit…” She forced every word out. She wanted to say more, but Aragorn’s eyes told her to be silent all on their own. She wisely shut her mouth. Her sweater had been pulled off of her, something that made her slightly uncomfortable, and Aragorn held out his hand. Someone, Amelia didn’t have the strength to turn her head to see who it was, pressed a waterskin into his outstretched hand and he poured water onto her open wound carefully, mindful of causing her as little pain as possible. She grunted as his hands flittered over her wound once again.   
“I am out of bandages.” He muttered to himself and Amelia grit her teeth.   
“Here.” Legolas’ pale hand came into view, holding a white roll and Aragorn took it.   
“Hold her up.”   
“Wait, wait, wait!” Amelia exclaimed weakly, but she was promptly ignored as large hands grabbed her shoulders and pushed her forward, up into a sitting position. She hissed animalistically, angrily, at whoever it was.   
“Sorry, lass.” She heard Gimli mutter and she made another growl at him. Aragorn’s wrapping of her shoulder was over nearly before it began. His movements were calm, unshaking and trained, the work of an experienced healer. However, Amelia felt immensely uncomfortable when he had to take her white shirt off as well. His eyes didn’t stray though and Amelia had to remind herself that she trusted him to do his work and no more. The wrapping started around her upper arm and then it climbed up to encompass her shoulder. Finally, Aragorn wrapped it around her torso as well, effectively tying her left arm in place.   
“She needs rest. I would prefer to stitch her shoulder, but a tight enough bandage will have to do for now.” Aragorn turned his head to tell someone, but Amelia couldn’t hear their reply. “That will have to wait for now. If they carried them off, they don’t intend to kill them.” Aragorn turned back to her and Amelia suddenly remembered that she still had Boromir’s shield in her hands.   
“Shield.” She glanced at it and pulled her hands away. Two arrows still sat in it.   
“I hardly think that’s our greatest concern now.” Gimli exclaimed and she took a deep breath. The excruciating, scraping pain had instead become a steady thumping in her shoulder.   
“Can you make it back to the boats?” Aragorn looked like he loathed himself for even asking the question in the first place.   
“You just watch me.” Amelia’s stubbornness flared again and she saw Legolas shake his blond head at her in exasperation. She glared at him and held out her right hand for Aragorn to take. He stood up and pulled her to her feet. She staggered, momentarily losing her balance, but then Aragorn’s other hand snaked around her waist to steady her. She mumbled a thanks at him and took a hesitant step forwards and her knees buckled. Aragorn caught her before she fell and she heard someone mutter something.   
“I’ll take her.” Boromir stepped forwards and Amelia saw that he avoided her eyes. He turned around and said “Up.”. Amelia blinked in confusion, but then she remembered the way the orcs had carried Merry and Pippin on their backs and realized what Boromir meant by it. She mustered enough strength to jump up and lock her arms around her shoulders. He grunted a little, but then strode forwards like she weighed nothing at all. She glanced back to see Aragorn carrying her shirt and sweater under his left arm. She turned back and rested her cheek on the back of Boromir’s neck. Her eyelids dropped again, but she refused to fall asleep or lose consciousness, tightening her legs around him.  
She made a small sound of protest at his jolting pace, but it didn’t seem that he heard her.   
Finally, the five of them reached the shore and Amelia let go, falling heavily onto the bank with a grunt. Boromir took a few steps away from her, nonchalantly, and sat down as well, but Amelia felt his eyes on her and he bore a strange expression.   
“Frodo and Sam will have crossed the lake by now.” Legolas observed with a frown. He stared at the opposite end of the lake and Amelia hummed, rubbing her face with her right hand. She noticed that it was still an unhealthy, pale color, far more pale than she had ever seen it before.   
“We can’t follow them.” She sounded just as tired as she felt.   
“Then it has all been in vain.” Gimli grumbled, uncharacteristically hopeless. “The Fellowship has failed.” Aragorn stepped forwards and grasped Gimli’s shoulders with both of his hands.   
“Not if we hold true to each other.” He assured the dwarf and Gimli grinned up at him, his left hand rising to clasp Aragorn’s right arm. “We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death. Not while we have strength left.” Then, he turned towards Amelia and kneeled down in front of her. “What is our course?” Amelia blinked at him.  
“You’re asking me?!” She exclaimed, but then she groaned and rolled her head. Pain flared as she rolled her shoulders and she winced in regret. She took a deep breath and her dizziness faded ever so slightly. “Of course you are… Oh, let me think for a moment…” She hesitated with her answer. “Look, everything has changed by now.” She glanced at Boromir, but then at Legolas as well, to give the impression that Boromir had had nothing to do with what had changed in the first place. “My… predictions… are going to be a bit wobbly… I still can’t just tell you everything, but… I don’t know whether it’s a good idea for me to go with you. I’m, well, not at my best.” She glared halfheartedly at her left arm. “I’ll slow you down, don’t bother denying it.” Then, she smiled, slowly. “But I do have a bit of an idea. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli… think you’re up for hunting some orc?” Her answer was Gimli laughing and raising his axe. She grinned back at him. “Awesome. I’ll take Boromir and head… somewhere. I’ve got a few ideas about that, we’ll figure it out.”   
“Then it is decided.” Aragorn stood again and sheathed the dagger he had been holding loosely in his hand. He put down Amelia’s shirt and sweater beside her. “Leave all that can be spared behind. We travel light.” Legolas picked up a single pack of lembas and Aragorn came over to Amelia as she stood up. He pressed his right hand to his left shoulder. “It has been my singular honor to travel with you both.” He declared sincerely and Amelia grinned weakly at him before embracing him with her right arm. He returned it, gently. Amelia gave Gimli’s shoulder a squeeze with her good hand, looked into Legolas’ eyes and nodded at him and she watched them turn away with a slight smile on her face. Boromir stood up once again and shook hands with Aragorn, nodded to Legolas and Gimli and then, the man, the elf and the dwarf rushed off into the woods, away from Amelia and Boromir, leaving the two standing in silence on the bank.   
“What do we do now?” Boromir asked her, the shame of his actions still burning in his eyes. Amelia turned her head and a smile slowly spread across her face.   
“We have the whole of Middle-Earth before us and by rights, we don’t even exist.” She sighed and looked back at where she caught a brief flash of Legolas’ pale hair amidst the trees before they were gone, swallowed up by Amon Hen. “I haven’t got the faintest idea.”


	15. Dour Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I wouldn’t trade it for anything, never, no. Never. Your friendship is the best present ever.”  
> -Tigger, Winnie the Pooh

“Grab your shield and whatever else you think you need to drag with you. We’re going to Edoras.” Amelia pulled on her white shirt with clumsy movements, not caring about the slatternly splotch of blood on it, gently lifting her left arm through the sleeve, but she stuffed her coat and torn sweater into her backpack, which she carried on her back, beneath the cloak. Aeglos hung in its sheath and she had fastened the cloak from Lothlórien around her neck. Boromir was watching her with his shield on his back and a frown on his brow. Amelia rolled her eyes at his expression. “Don’t worry. I know I shouldn’t be going for a cross-country sprint right of the bat. We’ll take it slow. I mean, I kind of have to. I can barely stand.” Satisfied, Boromir turned away to glare into the woods, as if they had caused him personal offense. Amelia grunted as she adjusted her backpack on her right shoulder, trying to make it as easy for her injured one as possible.  
“We could make for Gondor.” Boromir suggested hesitantly, as if he was afraid he would spook her. Amelia sighed, knowing that, for the first time, the reasoning behind his suggestion wasn’t entirely faulty.  
“I know and I actually considered the possibility, but if Faramir doesn’t…” She abruptly held her tongue, but the damage had been done. Boromir’s eyes flared in alarm and he took a step closer.   
“What do you know of my brother?”   
“Nothing.” Amelia chipped and Boromir’s eyes narrowed. She groaned. “It’s a future-thing… You know what, screw it.” She sighed and looked up. “Why do you think I followed you into the woods to begin with? You were kind of supposed to die in there, buddy.” The confession left her nervous, but Boromir nodded, as if he had guessed that long before she had told him. “Your brother… Wait, let me start over. You died. Then, they threw you in a boat and sent it out over the waterfall.”  
“Why would the orcs…”  
“It wasn’t the orcs, idiot. The others didn’t exactly have time for a fancy funeral here, in the middle of nowhere, but anyways, you floated on your merry way down the river, don’t ask me how you managed to stay in your dinghy all serene and dead when it literally went over a waterfall ‘cause I have no idea, but Faramir was standing out in the river for some reason, just kind of chilling, but then you floated by and yeah… So that’s that.” Amelia trailed off, realizing that what she was saying sounded like pure insanity.   
“And how would you know of this?” Boromir sounded like he thought she had lost all sense.   
“Well, shit, I can’t answer that, but I kind of took an arrow for you and your ass, so is it too much to ask you to trust me on this one?” Boromir didn’t answer. “Anyways, if Faramir doesn’t see you on your happy little cruise towards the sea, thinks might not go to shit in Gondor. However, things most definitely will go to shit in Rohan and…” Amelia considered telling him about Gandalf the White, but decided against it. “There’s someone we should meet there. Don’t expect a warm welcome though.”   
“You are asking me to take much on faith.” Boromir interrupted her chatter.  
“I know.” She simple answered and stopped in front of him, resting her hand on her sword. The other hung limply at her side. She looked him in the eyes, attempting to appear as sincere as she could manage while she was close to keeling over. “And if you don’t feel like tagging along, I won’t force you. Sure, I’ll probably get pissed, but I won’t stop you from going to Gondor. I’m asking, not demanding you come with me, but I’d be glad if you did.” Boromir looked down, avoiding her eyes and she sighed, going to the heart of the matter. “You’re generally a remarkable man, Boromir. Strong. Tough. Even smart, and don’t you dare quote me on that. Stick with me, and you might yet become a good one too.”   
“You do me too much honor.” He said bitterly and turned away. Amelia’s shoulders sagged slightly. “I have failed.”   
“Whether you failed or not is irrelevant and right now, I don’t care about it.” She snapped, her patience wearing thin. “If you failed, you have a chance to make things right. If you didn’t, yay. Either way, I’m going to Edoras. You can come along or go home, but don’t make me regret taking that arrow for you, because that hurt like a bitch.” Impatiently, she awaited his answer, for she had never been a woman of patience. The son of Gondor ran a hand through his hair, then turned to face her again.   
“You would have lain down your life for mine. I can only hope to live up to the deed.” He answered and Amelia cocked her head.   
“I’ll assume that means that you’ll come along. Great. To Edoras it is.” She brushed past him, dizzy and wobbly, still with no clue as to whether she was heading in the right direction.   
“To Edoras it is.” He mumbled and followed her into the woods, away from the white boats abandoned on the shore. 

Amelia had to admit that her injury had taken more out of her than she had anticipated. The blood loss she still suffered from made her sluggish and slow, but Boromir waited patiently for her when she had to take a break. The two walked in silence, at a steady, calm pace, following another route than the one Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had taken. Whereas they had immediately had to go southwest, Boromir and Amelia walked west as best they could with no map or compass to guide them, only their own memory and sense of direction.   
“Just so you know…” Amelia called as Boromir walked up a slope covered in leaves in the late afternoon. “I am completely and absolutely relying on your skill at geography. My sense of direction is about as good as a paper plane’s.”   
“I assume that means that you’re not well-versed in these lands, then?” Amelia finally reached him and he held out a hand to steady her when she wobbled slightly. “We can rest if you are in need of it.”   
“That’s real nice of you, but I’d like to get out of this forest before it gets dark. Place gives me the creeps.” Boromir raised his eyebrows. “What?”  
“These woods stretch for miles yet. Even had we good horses, we would not reach the end of them today.” Amelia groaned.   
“Brilliant. All we need is for lightning to strike down at us from above and the day’s just perfect.” Distant thunder rumbled and Amelia craned her head back. “That was not a challenge!”   
As opposed to Amelia’s assumption, lightning did not strike them down, but dark rainclouds reached them as the light grew dim, moving northeast, and it began to pour down, wetting the earth and making the smell of water and plants rise up from the soil. Amelia pulled up the hood of her cloak, as did her companion, and they continued for yet another while before Boromir held her back as they reached the top of yet another hill.   
“We must find shelter and you need your rest. I am no healer, but I know enough of battles and blood to know that you have lost a lot and need to rest.” Amelia snorted at him.   
“You guys always speak so… so grandly. Anyways, yeah, you’re probably right, I might be desperate for a bath, but not so much that I’ll grab a bar of soap and strip here and now, even though I probably could in this rotten weather.” Finding the aforementioned shelter was, however, easier said rather than done. They continued for yet another hour before they finally happened upon an old, ruined bridge, covered in climbing vines and moss, but it did offer some sparse shelter from the heavy rain. The weather made them both irritable and thus, they did not speak as they settled beneath the bridge, waiting for the watermasses to pass them by. Lighting a fire was hopeless before they tried at all and thus they did not try, but instead pulled their cloaks closer around themselves.   
In the fading daylight, Amelia studied Cilya, the ring on her finger, gifted to her by the Lady Galadriel as she departed Lothlórien, and it seemed to glow under her attention. She reached out, traced the gemstones, and smiled slightly to herself at the memory of Lórien and its light, before she was reminded of her circumstances by the sound of rain and the distant Rauros, and her face soured once again.   
“Why did you do it?” Boromir suddenly asked and her eyes snapped to him.  
“Did what?” She asked, even though she was fully aware of what he was asking her to answer.   
“Why did you jump in front of me? The shot could have felled me and no one would have been any the wiser.” Boromir’s logic made sense. Amelia had asked herself the same question without reaching a clear conclusion, but perhaps airing and sharing her thoughts would lead her to it, since she was unable to do so herself.   
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t consider my own mortality.” Boromir nodded with a thoughtful, grave expression, as if he understood all too well what she was talking about. “I have a habit of talking before I think. Maybe that applies to fighting as well, that I don’t really think about what I’m doing before it’s too late.”  
“So it was not deliberate then?” He didn’t sound angry about that, which spurred Amelia on.   
“No, I did… think about it, just not when I actually had to choose whether to do it or not. I just did. It’s difficult to explain and I’m still wondering whether it was the right decision. But whatever. What’s done is done.” She briefly toyed with the idea of stabbing Boromir to death and making a break for it, but then decided that that would be a distinctly bad idea, since Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had all seen him alive already. “I suppose I’ll find out whether I made the right choice.”   
“How?”   
“Well, everything I hope for either goes up in smoke or we make it through and I get to go home. I think that’ll make it pretty clear whether I messed up or not.” Boromir looked away from her.   
“Your path is set then?”   
“Yes. This has been great and all, but… I’ve got family, friends back home. No way am I leaving them wondering where I am for the rest of their lives.”   
“It will be difficult to return, now that Gandalf is gone.” Amelia grinned mysteriously at him and stretched.   
“That’s most of the reason why we’re heading to Edoras. My friend there will be able to help with that.”   
“You’re sure about this?”   
“Positive. Now, didn’t you say I needed my rest? Well, now I’m saying it back. I’ll try to get some sleep.”  
“You certainly are a stubborn woman.”   
“So I’ve been told. You have the same problem. Being stubborn, I mean, not a woman, though I will absolutely deck you if you say that that is as much of a problem as being stubborn. Now shut it and let me sleep without chatting my ear off.”   
“As you wish.” The rest of their rest passed in silence, though it was not of the heavy or awkward sort, but rather the silence that arises when all one wishes to say have been said and there is nothing left but a companionable calmness. 

Amelia jerked awake for the second time and lay still for a long moment, listening to see what had woken her, but since nothing came to mind, she assumed that it was another case of a forgotten nightmare and she sat up, her hair messy from sleep and her eyes bleary. She yawned and, as she sat up, she heard the sound of a singing blackbird. The morning sunlight was filtering through the treetops and a light mist was in the air. She glanced over to see Boromir sitting up, asleep against his pack and shield, and, like on her first night spent with the Fellowship of the Ring, she noticed that sleep eased the lines of worry on his head and made him look much younger.   
He stirred moments later, no doubt feeling her eyes on him, and she cast her gaze away, embracing her knees and looking away.   
“Good morning.” Her voice was as neutral and nonchalant as she could make it. They shared a piece of lembas for breakfast, without much talk being exchanged. Then, they picked up their packs and were on their way again.   
“At this pace, we ought to reach the capital of Rohan little more than a week’s time.” Amelia tried to remember on which dates certain events had occurred, but found that, while she could remember the events to great detail, specific dates were much harder to remember.   
“Sounds… good, I think?” Amelia nevertheless walked faster, feeling much better after sleeping for hours, despite waking up twice in the night. “There’s the slight problem of my ‘friend’ only being in town for a specific number of days and he doesn’t know we’re coming. I hope we get to him in time, but if not, I’ll hunt him down with a lasso if need be.”   
“Such strange words you say.” Boromir looked like he was close to smiling at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes.   
“You ought to be used to it by now. I mean, you’ve been subject to my language for months now.”   
“I don’t think I’ll ever quite get used to you.” The words surprised Amelia pleasantly and her mouth curled upwards at his words.   
“I’m going to take that as a compliment. Enjoy it while it lasts. I’ll be out of your hair in less than a month.” Boromir looked surprised at her declaration, but then his face turned contemplative.   
“Then all of this will be over in but a few weeks’ time.” Amelia realized what she had said and made a mental note to be a little less conclusive with Boromir in her plans.   
“For better or for worse.”   
They walked on in silence and the day went much like the previous one, except that Amelia didn’t need to stop to rest nearly so often and no rain passed overhead. Then, to pass the time, Amelia started to talk.   
“It occurs to me that I don’t actually know much about you.” She started off with a blunt lie. She knew so much about him that it was bordering on improper, but she had yet to hear much of it from his own tongue and found that she desired it to be so, instead of working with knowledge she had gained from reading a book months ago.   
“And whatever would you want to know?”  
“Well, shoot, I don’t know. I’m horrible at making friends and… what do you call it? Small talk?”   
“Small talk?”  
“Idle chatter to pass the time. So, I don’t know… I know where you’re from, since it’s difficult to get you to shut up about it, but you haven’t told me much of your family or your… what’s that word… position as the Steward’s son?” Boromir sighed at her insistence as they jumped over a log covered in moss. The forest undergrowth had grown more dense, but it was farther between the trees.   
“I am called Boromir, son of Denethor, the ruling Steward of Gondor. I was born in the year of 2978, in the white city of Minas Tirith, the capital of the realm.” Amelia did some hasty math.  
“So you’re either forty or forty-one, depending on whether you’ve had a birthday yet. Okay. What about your brother?” Boromir looked a bit confused.   
“Most people I have met tend to ask me about my father.”   
“Yeah, well, I’m not most people and besides, I probably wouldn’t, since we don’t have nobility and kings and whatnot where I come from. To me, titles and all that doesn’t really mean anything.”   
“I see. And what would you ask of my brother? You already seem to know a great deal about him.” The slight reminder of her flop on the waterbank made her grimace slightly.  
“It’s one thing to just know something the way I do and another to actually find out. I’m curious. Indulge me.” There was a bit of a silence, but then Boromir spoke again. His words were a bit awkward and stilted, but Amelia ignored at and his words flowed better the longer he talked.   
“My brother, Faramir, is five years younger than me. I have been told that we look alike, but I do not see it. He is strong of heart and studious of mind, but our father tends to be harsh on him and soft on myself.”   
“So he favors you.” Amelia wasn’t one for dancing around the matter. “From what you’ve told me, I can guess that he has taken more to reading and history than swords and lording around.” She gave him a pointed look as she spoke.   
“That would be a correct assumption.” Boromir didn’t seem to pick up on her insinuation.   
“Hm.” Amelia thought about that for a few seconds. She knew that Denethor’s favoring of Boromir had never been a point of his death. “Well, that’s that. What about Minas Tirith? I’ve never been there and you’re the best one around to tell me what it’s like.” Boromir’s eyes lit up and his voice got a touch of reverent awe in it.  
“I have yet to see a city that could compete with its glory.” He answered with a soft expression that made Amelia smile at him as they walked down a slope. “Her white walls are sturdy and her soul is strong and valiant, like those of her sons and daughters. Long has she stood against the spawn of Mordor.”   
“You speak about the city as if it’s a person.” Amelia remarked and Boromir nodded. “As if it has a life of its own. Sure sounds more interesting than what I’m used to. Our cities are big and noisy, full of technology,” Her face twisted, “But what they gained in efficiency they lost in soul.”   
They continued onwards as Boromir told her of the grey pennants on the rooftops, the white tree in the courtyard and the silver trumpets that would surely welcome them home upon his return. He told her of the ever flowing fountains, of the sound of wind chimes carried on the breeze in the spring and the sunlight shining in the metal of the fine armor of the guards of Gondor. Amelia listened attentively, not interrupting for any other purpose than to ask a question, and she wondered when such adoration of one’s homeland had disappeared from her own home and twisted into a longing to leave it and see more of the world, when one’s place of birth had become known as dreary instead of a proud testament of culture and capability. 

That evening, they managed to light a fire to keep them warm and to feel the heat at last was like stepping down into a warm bath for Amelia. Her tense and tired muscles loosened and she stretched like a cat, content to lie on the ground, with her back against her backpack and her coat pulled over her, an improvised duvet. She glanced up at the stars able to be peeked through the trees.   
“It’s strange what you miss when you’re away from home.” She thought aloud to no one in particular, not caring as to whether Boromir heard her or not, even though he did. “I miss my stars and my moon. Mostly at night.” She didn’t say anything further and Boromir set to work sharpening his sword. The sharp sound of a whetstone sliding over metal kept Amelia awake and she turned towards him, grumbling slightly over the crackling sound of the fire.   
“Would you knock it off? I’m trying to get some sleep here.”  
“You will thank me for this if we happen upon another band of orcs.”   
“Yeah, well, if we do, I’m not going to stick around to fight them this time. I’m gonna haul jets out of there. Taking an arrow for you was a one-time deal. If you charge into the fray, I won’t help unless there’s a particularly good reason.”   
“How about your own survival?” Boromir snapped and Amelia’s eyes narrowed. She pushed herself up on her elbow.   
“How about you shut your mouth and let me sleep? We won’t be any use in a fight if we don’t get any rest anyways.” Amelia felt oddly conflicted about snapping at Boromir. On the one hand, she felt that he deserved it and that her logic was sure and sound. On the other, she knew that he was her only companion and that things were bound to get tense if either of them started an argument. Her feelings for the gondorian were muddy at best and the uncertainty infuriated her. Boromir himself had little to do with it, but he was the only one she had to blame.   
“One moment you’re reminiscing about your home and the next you’re acting like I’ve insulted you. May I ask what brought this on?” Boromir’s mouth turned downwards and Amelia groaned, pulling her coat up to cover her head. She answered his question, but he didn’t hear her. “What did you say?”  
“I said…” Amelia pulled her coat down again and scowled at Boromir. “That you should stop being nosy as well as noisy and let me sleep, you infernal man.” She turned away from him, suppressing the annoyance she felt rising.   
Boromir did not sharpen his sword anymore that night.


	16. Seas of Grass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “He was royalty. So what? Everyone had a flaw.”  
> -Gena Showalter

Amelia jerked awake yet again and was tempted to shout at the heavens, desperate for someone to blame for her weakness and for her not remembering whatever it was that tormented her dreams so, yet refused to show itself, but she only sat up stiffly and poked at the dying embers, the remains of their fire, with the stick they had used for the same purpose the evening before.   
“We ought to reach the lands of Rohan today,” Boromir informed her as she half-heartedly chewed on a piece of lembas, “Yet it will still be several days before we will be able to see the golden hall of Meduseld.”   
“The golden hall of what now?” Amelia gave him an incredulous look.   
“Meduseld, the golden hall resting atop the city of Edoras.”   
“So it’s like the capital of the capital.” Amelia cocked her head. “Weird.”   
The rest of the chilly morning passed in heavy silence, words only being spoken when it was deemed necessary. Amelia had yet to change out of her clothes for around three days and she was covered in smudges of dirt and filth. Her hair was greasy and she kept it tied back, for a strong wind blew as they got on the move and it slowed them, if only for a scant half of an hour or so. Amelia’s feet ached from the walking and her shoulder was sore, but she refused to complain and held her head high, eyes turned towards the horizon that had started to appear as the trees grew fewer and the slopes grew steeper.   
Then, they cleared the last of the trees as it neared midday and Amelia could behold the grassland of the riddermark with her own two eyes.   
It truly did look nothing like she had imagined, for it was not as barren as she had thought it to be. Its grass was not brown or trampled, but a healthy, golden color and so tall that it brushed her knees. Hills rolled as far as the eye could see and, when the wind blew across the moors it truly did look like waves in a golden sea of grass, its boulders sticking up like small islands from the lapping waves. It had its own, raw beauty to it, a feeling of something wild and natural.   
“Rohan.” Boromir informed her unnecessarily. “Realm of the horse-lords.”   
“It’s pretty.” Amelia told him honestly. “I’ve never seen plains so far. It looks… wild.”   
“Yes, wild, wild and unpredictable, like the people that live here.” Boromir agreed. “Shall we?” He led her down the slope and up another, keeping an annoyingly close eye on her complexion and breathing as the pattern repeated itself, to see whether she was straining herself more than she had to, but she knew that to do such a thing would be unwise and she was content with a sprightly walk instead of a trot. The wafts of wind tore at Amelia’s cloak and she pulled it tighter around herself, shivering as goosebumps appearing on her skin. She considered pulling out her sweater, but decided against it, since it would only slow their progress. Absently, she picked at the crust of blood on her whist shirt with her right hand, but by then the red color had become a dark brown splotch, the flakes of blood falling off like she was picking at a scab. It was a disgusting thing to wear, but Amelia had little choice in the matter. It was either that, the sorry remains of her sweater or nothing at all.   
Amelia hummed a nonsensical tune to herself as Boromir held out his hand to help her up the hill and she swatted him away, insisting on walking the distance without assistance. Something about the lands of Rohan made her strangely happy, bordering on giddy. Still, they walked in silence, with Amelia only showing her lightness of mood through her skipping through the tall grass. At an impulse, she reached up and pulled her hairband out of her hair and tied it around her right wrist, letting the wind throw around her brown hair as it willed. For the first time, she had the time and mood she needed to notice that it had gotten longer, around two inches or so, and that her time spent under the sun had made a few spots of it lighten and catch the sunlight. As opposed to the days she had spent with Boromir after Amon Hen, the sky was clear, with only harmless, light grey clouds crossing it lazily.   
When Amelia closed her eyes and felt the breeze lifting her hair, the golden grass brushing against her knees and the ground beneath her booted feet, she came near to convincing herself that she was back in her childhood home in Saratoga County, before she had moved to Burlington to get away from everyone and everything she knew.   
Then, Boromir stepped up beside her and she opened her eyes to once again behold the seas of grass spread out before her. She turned her head to glance at the man beside her and her tranquil expression faltered, replaced by the careful mask she had worn for years. It didn’t occur to her that Boromir had been watching her moment of serenity.   
“We should probably speed things up a bit.” She suggested. “I can take it. We might be able to cut off a day or to that way.” Boromir gave her an evaluating look, one that she returned with a haughty look of her own.   
“If you think that that is best.” Amelia was surprised at how quickly he relented. Before Amon Hen, his stubbornness had known no ends and he had often tried to convince others to see the situation from his point of view, to follow his path instead of their own. “Amon Hen really changed you, didn’t it?” She asked rhetorically, with a thoughtful expression. She had gotten so caught up in her own thoughts of him that she didn’t catch the flash of shame in his grey eyes. Without waiting for an answer, she jumped down the slope of the hill they had been standing on, side by side, and she didn’t look back to see whether he followed her or not. 

Not much of note happened over the course of the following few days, but on the day on which Amelia was informed that it was the 2nd of March, she spotted a distant cloud of dust rising from the north and a golden glint to the west.   
“Question…” She elbowed Boromir in the side and pointed at the two things, first at the cloud in the distance and then to the west, towards what looked like the reflection of some golden glimmer. “What is that and what is that?” Boromir held up a hand to shadow his eyes from the sun, but he only needed to glance northwards to be able to give her a satisfactory answer.   
“Riders, numbering in the hundreds or thousands. They are riding north, away from our position, but I can’t say why. Nothing lies that way except Fangorn Forest and only a fool would venture there.”   
“Uh huh.” Amelia smirked slightly at his answer, remembering how readily Merry and Pippin had sprinted off into the woods in the story that she knew. “And that over there?” She pointed to the west again and Boromir’s eyes narrowed as he too caught the distant shine. Then, a satisfied smile broke out across his face, the first Amelia had seen for many days.   
“The golden hall of Meduseld. On a sunny day, its golden roofs can be seen from miles away. If we make haste, we can reach it before sundown.”   
“Make haste? I’ll fucking race you there if it means I get a bath and bed as a reward.”   
“I think that can be arranged.”   
“What, the bath and the bed or the race? ‘Cause I don’t think I’m up for running that far just yet, but if you’re offering me a challenge…”  
“I wasn’t. You shouldn’t strain yourself.”   
“It was my shoulder the bastards shot, not my legs. It’s not like I’m dying. At worst, it’s sore. I can still use my hand too.”   
“Let’s not tempt fate more than we already have.”   
“As I’ve told you many times before, screw fate, destiny and the future, all of them. But sure, let’s do this the hard way.”   
“I would hardly call ensuring that you don’t drop dead the hard way.”   
“Oh, so you do worry about me?”   
“Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?”   
“Sure, but they’re not supposed to nag you at every- now hold your horses for just a bit…” Amelia blinked at the gondorian, who had raised his eyebrows at her in the midst of their bickering. “Friends?”   
“If you like.” Amelia blinked at him, getting a feel for the word and attempting to apply it to Boromir. She found it surprisingly easy and in that moment, the last bit of her annoyance from their nonsensical argument shriveled and died.   
“Sure. Friends.” She nodded to herself. “Yup.” Then, she skipped onwards, spurred on by the golden glint in the distance. 

By the time they reached the gate of Edoras, night was falling and clouds were gathering in the sky, looking far more ominous than those who had glided across the sky throughout their days of traveling. The golden hall of Meduseld lay atop the large hill upon which the city had been built and it shone like a beacon even in the faint light of the torches around it and the stars in the sky.   
To reach the gate, they had to walk through an odd collection of purposefully placed hills covered in small, white flowers.   
“Grave mounds.” Boromir told her in a respectful, quiet voice. “The rohirrim bury their honored dead here.”  
“Yeah, I kinda figured that out already.” Amelia mumbled back at him as they stopped in front of the large gate, closed shut.   
“Halt!” A male voice cried and Amelia had to crane her head back to look at the guard who stood atop the ramparts. “Who comes?” The guard wore a silvery helmet lined with gold and a blonde beard was on his jaw.   
“I am Boromir, son of Denethor, the ruling Steward of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower.” Boromir answered with a high, confident voice. “The woman at my side is Amelia Jones, who I have traveled with through many hardships.” There was some muttering behind the gate.  
“Open the gate!” The guard yelled then and the gate swung inwards, revealing houses with roofs of straw and people clad in browns, yellows and green hurrying to and forth. It seemed like the city was busy preparing for something. Brown, black and white horses stood at every corner and the smell of them was thick in the air. The ground was hard, trampled with generations of horses and their riders riding out of Edoras and back again.   
“Horse-lords indeed.” Amelia muttered, but she doubted that even Boromir heard her, even though he was the one standing closest to her.   
“Forgive our caution, milord.” The guard came down from the ramparts, thick walls made of wood and stone. “You come at a time most fortuitous though, for our king Théoden has just been cured of a most terrible illness.”   
“I was not aware the king of Rohan was sick, though it gladdens me to hear at least some good news.”   
“I don’t know if sick is the right word…” Amelia interrupted with a thoughtful expression. The guard looked surprised that she spoke at all and not waited for the men to finish. “More like possessed. Care to tell who took care of it?” Amelia gave Boromir a smirk that he couldn’t quite decipher.   
“The most unlikely person of all, my lady.” The guard didn’t seem to notice the odd grin on her face. “Gandalf the White, as he now prefers himself to be called, arrived in our hour of need, to cure Lord Théoden of his ills.”   
“Gandalf?!” Boromir exclaimed and Amelia was tempted to laugh at his face. “No, there must be some mistake, for last I heard, Gandalf the Grey fell in the depths of Moria, not to be seen again in this life.” Amelia elbowed him gently in the side.  
“Who’d you think we were going to meet here, dummy? Let’s say hello, shall we?” She strode ahead, with Boromir following her with a dumbstruck expression that Amelia couldn’t resist letting out a little laugh at. She had not thought to ever see him with such a human expression, but it suited him better than his usual, stoic one. “If everything has gone to plan, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli should be here somewhere too.” She called over her shoulder. She didn’t notice the way she caught the guards’ attention or the way the village folk stared at her, with her shirt covered in blood or her wearing pants like a man.   
“You planned this?” Boromir ran a hand over his face as she slowed down to let him catch up to her. “Of course you did.”  
“Of course I did.” Amelia agreed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, abruptly, she stopped. Boromir was immediately alarmed.   
“What is it?”  
“Crap.” She mumbled. “I forgot one teeny-tiny detail.” She sighed and flicked her head at the sounds of chatter from the townsfolk. “Remember those tombs outside the city?” Boromir nodded hesitantly. “Well, a few days ago, the kind’s son died. Théo-something.”   
“Théodred has passed as well?” Boromir looked as if the news troubled him greatly. Amelia sighed and nodded.  
“Yeah. Nothing that could be done to stop it. I doubt even I could have done something, but that is in the past. Just a warning though, I mean… Théoden has just been mindjacked by a sorcerer and lost his son and nephew in one fell swoop.”  
“Éomer has fallen too?”  
“Oh, no, no. Remember those riders we saw? He’s… Ah, forget it, we have bigger things to worry about right now.” Amelia quickened her pace towards the hall atop the hill. Boromir didn’t find it difficult to keep up with her, even as she rushed up the steps before she was abruptly stopped as two guards stepped forth, their spears forming an X. “Are you kidding me?” She asked them, but Boromir gave her a look that told her to let him handle it.   
“Peace.” He said, holding up his hands. It didn’t do much to detract from the wide blade that hung from his side, but it did show off the horn of Gondor and that got the guards’ attention. “We come bearing no ill will towards your king. May we enter? We have much to discuss with those within the hall of Meduseld.” The guards hesitated, but the sigil of the white tree of Boromir’s chest and the horn at his belt seemed to convince them that they were who they said they were. They stepped backwards once again and Boromir nodded to the, to show his gratitude. Amelia flatly ignored them as they turned and opened the heavy doors for them. Amelia strode inside, like a queen returning to her kingdom, with Boromir following more slowly.  
The inside of the hall was warm and golden, with tall pillars carved with plants and horses holding up the roof, and a warm hearth burned in the middle. Red, green and golden banners hung on the walls and at the end sat a man with hair as yellow as the grass of his lands, but with white streaking it. His face was lined with worry and age, but he held himself tall like a king and his eyes were clear and focused. He wore a fine, red tunic with golden embroidery.   
Tables stood along the walls and two children sat at one of them, with a woman clad in black and with fair, golden hair kneeling beside them. She stood up as Amelia and Boromir stepped inside, but she didn’t seem to notice them. A figure clad in white robes sat beside the king on his throne, with white hair and a white beard. To the left, at another table, sat three folk that Amelia immediately steered towards. All within the hall were caught up in an intense discussion, neither one of them noticing the two newcomers.   
“This is but a taste of the terror that Saruman will unleash.” The white figure gestured towards the two children, who looked as if they had been dragged to hell and back. “All the more potent, for he is driven now by fear of Sauron.” He leaned towards the king. “Ride out and meet him head-on. Draw him away from your women and children. You must fight.”   
“Gandalf!” Amelia called and the people in the hall jumped at the sound of her voice. “Good to see you up and about again. What’s all this about?”   
“Lass!” Gimli bellowed and stood up from his seat, rushing towards her. She clapped him on the shoulder, nodded to Legolas and Aragorn came over to gently squeezed her good shoulder.  
“It is good to see you both.” Aragorn nodded to Boromir, who looked away as he stood awkwardly to the side. “How are you?” He asked Amelia lowly, glancing at her arm.   
“Sore and stiff as heck, but no more than that. I’m fine. It does hurt a bit though.” Aragorn’s eyebrows knitted together.   
“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Théoden straightened his back in his seat and Boromir stepped forwards.   
“Forgive her, Théoden king.” He said. “The Lady Amelia is not used to our ways as of yet.”  
“Sure I am, I just think they’re stupid.” Amelia interrupted, but Aragorn hushed her. She looked at him with an affronted expression. She had noticed that Boromir’s tone had changed when he spoke with the purpose of diplomacy. She doubted that he even noticed it himself.   
“But Gandalf!” Boromir exclaimed, staring at the white wizard. “How is this possible? I saw you fall with my own eyes, yet here you sit, alive and well. Is all that is sad in the world to be undone?”   
“Yet here I sit.” Gandalf agreed with a fond smile. “Though I am afraid that we still have much toil ahead of us. The tale as to how I am here can wait a little while yet. Did the dear girl not tell you?”   
“Didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” Amelia smiled that silly smile again.   
“My Lord, these people are Boromir of Gondor and Amelia Jones. They traveled with us for a time, but we parted at Amelia’s urging at the falls of Rauros.” Aragorn explained calmly and Théoden relaxed a bit. He waved a hand at them, suddenly seeming tired.  
“Forgive my inhospitality…” He began and Amelia hummed at him.  
“It’s understandable, given the circumstances. Mind-control and Isildur’s Heir reappearing and Saruman’s affair with Sauron, that’s a lot to wake up to.”   
“Indeed.” Théoden agreed and leaned forwards in his seat. “You have a peculiar dialect, miss. From where do you hail?” Amelia rested both her hands on her hips.   
“You wouldn’t know about it. I kind of just got dragged along for the ride. Just to warn you right of the bat, I tend to get annoying and I swear like all fucking hell, so you might want to prepare yourself for that. Anyways, should we get back to the matter at hand?”  
“Not so fast, miss. I cannot include just anyone in these discussions and you are…”  
“A woman?” Amelia gave him a sour look and glanced at Éowyn, who was as pale and cool as Amelia had expected and then some. “Dude, we think with our heads, not with what’s between our legs. I daresay that I know more about what’s to come than everyone in this room combined, even Gandalf.”  
“A bold claim.” Théoden did not look pleased at her bluntness and Gandalf sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.   
“‘Claim’?” Amelia snorted. “If you think I’m lying, I can prove myself to you.” By then, the air had gotten filled with restrained tension. “If you stay here twiddling your thumbs, Saruman will be able to waltz right in here. I’ve fought his Uruk-Hai, and so have Boromir and Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. An army of them against a city like this? You don’t stand a chance if you stay here. You’re outmanned and in a bad position.”  
“And what would you have me do?” Théoden sounded exhausted, as the troubles of the world rested on his shoulders and his shoulders alone. “Surrender to the enemy?”  
“You have two-thousand good men riding north as we speak.” Aragorn reminded him calmly. “Éomer is loyal to you. His men will return and fight for their king.” He pulled out his pipe and stuffed it with pipeweed as Théoden stood up from his seat. Gandalf looked worried at the prospect of a confrontation between the two.   
“They will be three-hundred leagues from here by now.” Théoden exclaimed heavily and started pacing in front of his throne. “Éomer cannot help us.” Gandalf stood up and walked towards him, but stopped when the king turned to face him. “I know what it is you want of me, but I will not bring further death to my people. I will not risk open war.” Théoden sounded quite final.   
“Oh, for the love of… Am I the only one seeing what’s really going on here?!” Amelia exclaimed, losing her temper and her patience in one fell swoop. “This isn’t about your people or Saruman or whether to risk open warfare. This is about Gondor!”  
“Gondor?” Boromir sounded like he strongly doubted her claim, but his eyes had lit up at the mention of his homeland. Aragorn had a pensive look on his face, Legolas looked a bit confused and Gimli still just looked happy to see her. “What have my people have to do with this?”  
“Don’t you see? It’s all connected!” The pieces fell into place as Amelia began speaking so quickly that most struggled to keep up. She began pacing and made agitated gestures with her hands. “Gondor, Saruman, Rohan, it’s all there! For now, Sauron doesn’t care about Rohan, he cares about Gondor, but to care about Gondor, he has to care about Rohan, because together, Rohan and Gondor can wipe the floor with him and he knows it! So, he figures ‘better take Rohan out of the game before they can start to play’ and what do you know, Théoden has been possessed by Saruman all of a sudden! Very convenient for the Dark Lord, wouldn’t you say? Then, Gandalf comes along and Théoden is up and about again, but still, the damage has been done, he won’t risk open war and Sauron can go after Minas Tirith without those pesky Rohirrim interfering, but he’s smart. I don’t like admitting it either, but the guy sure isn’t stupid. So, he figures, better make sure they won’t be interfering, right? However, he can’t send all the forces of Mordor off to fight the ‘My Little Pony’-people, but hey, he has his buddy Saruman, who’s been steadily breeding a bunch of orcs in Isengard right under Théoden’s nose the whole time! Why not just send them after them? Keep them occupied while Sauron prepares to strike out at Minas Tirith. Since Théoden won’t risk moving to Helm’s Deep, the Uruk-Hai can just waltz in and pillage the city. Without Rohan there to help, Sauron crushes Gondor and Middle-Earth with it.” Amelia finally fell silent, chest heaving as if she had been sprinting a good distance. Her eyes gleamed and she was rubbing her hands against each other, as if the energy in her body couldn’t be contained and was overflowing, needing to be manifested somehow.   
“That makes a disturbing amount of sense.” Gimli grumbled and Amelia nodded eagerly.   
“Right? This isn’t just about Rohan, it’s about the world! And by sitting on our hands, we’re just letting…”  
“Enough.” Théoden held up a hand and Amelia fell silent, passion burning within her. “You may know much, Lady Amelia, but last I looked, Théoden was king of Rohan, not foreigners bearing strange clothing and speaking strange words of doom and destruction.” Amelia’s eyes narrowed, but Boromir shook his head lightly at her and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep her silence.   
“Then what is the king’s command?” Gandalf asked and Théoden turned towards him, looking to all present as if he was about to give the most difficult order of his life.


	17. Underway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Laughter is an instant vacation.”  
> -Milton Berle

Despite ordering the evacuation of Edoras, Théoden informed Amelia that at least two or three hours would pass before they could get underway and in that time, she would be provided with new clothes, a cold bath and a hot meal if she wished it. She had leapt at the opportunity, loudly declaring that she would be a fool not to do so, and even though the water was cold and she was forced to wear a dress, a rough, sand-colored kirtle with a dark brown bodice and a white chemise, she couldn’t have been happier. She was cleaner than she had been since Lothlórien, her hair was no longer a sticky mass of something brown on her head and she had quickly tired of the taste of lembas for breakfast, lunch and dinner, even though the taste couldn’t have been better, and thus, the bland stew that she was served was akind to a feast to her tastebuds. Getting on the dress correctly took longer, since she didn’t have anyone to help her like she had in Rivendell and her injury screamed in pain when she attempted to lift her arm through the sleeve, but all in all, bathing, eating and pulling on her new clothes after stuffing the old ones in her backpack, which was beginning to strain a bit from the mass inside of it, only took about an hour and a half. By then, night had truly fallen outside and she was slightly puzzled, since she remembered the evacuation as taking place in daylight, but she supposed that the sooner the better. She let her damp hair hang loose around her shoulders, it reached her armpits by then, and she hurried back towards the entrance hall, mindful of her arm still aching from the strain she had put on it.  
“Amelia.” Aragorn sprang up from his seat and hurried towards her as soon as she entered. “You should have let me check on you before you went about your business.”   
“Uh huh.” Amelia dutifully sat down on the bench at the table he had been sitting at. Gimli and Boromir already sat there, caught up in a low discussion. “So, I suppose you want an update on how I’m doing, Dr. Worrywart?”   
“If you’re feeling up to it.” Her attempt at humor seemed to ease Aragorn’s mind a bit.  
“Well, it’s constantly sore, but that’s not surprising. It hurts like hell when I try to use my arm, but hey, I did take an arrow to the shoulder.”   
“Your bandages need changing. You’d be dead already if you’d caught an infection, which you probably should have, wearing the same bandages for as long as you have.”   
“So I should be dead. That’s not surprising either. By all accounts, I shouldn’t even be here.” Amelia’s mood soured and she looked away, folding her hands on the table.   
“Neither should I.” Boromir commented and it occurred to Amelia that he had probably been listening in on her conversation with Aragorn. His remark made her irrationally angry.   
“Yes, you should.” She snapped at him, attracting the attention of Gimli, Legolas and Éowyn, who had been passing by them. At Amelia’s sharp words she stopped to watch their exchange.   
“Dying would have brought me redemption, penance for my actions. You said yourself that I was meant to die on the slopes of Amon Hen.” Boromir argued and Amelia rolled her eyes.   
“How many times do I have to tell you?” She snarled, only focusing on Boromir and nobody else at that point. “I don’t care about what should have happened. I don’t care about redemption and I certainly don’t care about what you tried to do back there. I care about you. So, for the most part, I’m going to do my best to keep you alive.” She turned away from Boromir and ignored him before she could gauge his reaction.   
“Your shoulder will mend on its own, but the weapons of Mordor leaves scars difficult to heal, even with direct treatment.” Aragorn warned her after a long moment of silence. “Since you didn’t get immediate treatment when you were shot, I fear the scar may remain on your shoulder for years to come.”  
“Well, at least I’ll have a souvenir to show off.” Amelia grumbled and stood up from the bench once again, brushing past Lady Éowyn as she hurried out the front door of the hall. The city was alive with activity, peasants bustling about with baskets of supplies and pulling their horses out from their stables. The stars were covered by clouds and there was a nip in the air.   
“If all goes well, we should reach Helm’s Deep early in the day tomorrow.” She heard a voice filled with melancholy say behind her and she turned her head as Lady Éowyn walked up to stand beside her. Amelia only managed a stiff nod to her before she turned back to look over the city. Side by side, the two women stood like statues, one in brown and one in black. Amelia assumed that Éowyn’s dark choice of clothing was due to her not having had the time to change out of the outfit she had worn during her cousin’s funeral.   
“Yay. We’re dying in a keep instead of dying in a city. Instead of fighting, he chooses to hide like a coward.” Amelia then remembered who she was talking to and studied her feet, still clad in her black boots. She had kept her pants and boots on beneath her dress. “Sorry. I know he’s your uncle and all.”   
“My king is a brave man,” Éowyn stated calmly, “But my uncle has grown weary and cautious. He thinks with his head rather than his heart.” Amelia snorted lightly to herself.   
“You’d think he’d respect us as much as the men then, but oh no, we have to stay on the sidelines and nod and smile and say ‘please’.” Amelia’s words only seemed to sadden Éowyn even further. She reminded Amelia of a cold winter morning, of grass covered in rime and the icy chill she had gotten when she stepped into her cold bath.   
“Yet I see you carry a blade.” Éowyn remarked and Amelia hummed in acknowledgement. She had tied her belt, scabbard and sword around her hips, feeling far more comfortable with them and alone rather than without and surrounded by guards willing to lay down their lives for her. “And it is said that you have fought, fought orcs and foul creatures and traveled far of your own volition.” Éowyn sounded like she envied Amelia greatly, something that Amelia herself couldn’t quite understand, even though she tried to.  
“Éowyn, you… you were never meant to be just a… a pretty face. You have potential for a lot more than that.” Amelia had to remind herself not to reveal too much, even though she wanted to, if only to see Éowyn truly smile. She was a beautiful woman, but a distant one. “Wait, what did you mean when you said that ‘it is said’? Word sure does travel fast around here…”  
“It does when we are desperate for news from other lands than our own, to know whether these dark times have touched them as well.”   
“Oh, they definitely have. I mean… you can’t be alone in all this. It’s just not possible.” Éowyn, who had been looking out over the city as they talked, finally looked at Amelia. “And you… you might feel like you’re being suffocated and I get that, I do, but you’re not alone either.” Éowyn didn’t answer her and turned to look back out over the city. Amelia tried something, the last thing she could come up with. “So let’s show the guys how it’s done, yeah?” Éowyn looked at her again and raised her eyebrows slightly. When it didn’t look like Amelia was going to laugh at her or take back her words, the barest hint of a smile, more like the hint of a hint, ghosted over her face and Amelia felt a small pang of satisfaction at the sight.   
Amelia was startled when Gandalf suddenly rushed past them and down the steps leading up into the hall, followed closely by Aragorn.   
“Helm’s Deep!” She heard him exclaim loudly as she lifted her skirt and ran down the steps after him, nearly tripping and falling on the way. He said something that Amelia couldn’t hear before she caught up to the two, but by then they had already entered he large stables of Edoras and were rushing down the aisle as Amelia caught up to them.   
“He’s doing what he thinks is best for his people. Helm’s Deep has saved them in the past.” Aragorn told Gandalf in a neutral voice.  
“There is no way out of that ravine. Théoden is walking into a trap. He thinks he is leading them to safety, but what they will get is a massacre.” Gandalf sighed as he entered a booth that held a magnificent white horse, taller than any Amelia had ever seen and she knew that it was a lord among horses. Amelia opened her mouth to protest, to tell Gandalf that they still had a chance. “No, my dear, do not tell me whether we shall have victory or not. Such an act could lead to disaster indeed.” She promptly shut her mouth, getting a slightly giddy feeling at being able to talk to the wizard again, as if nothing had ever happened in the dark depths of Khazad-dûm. Gandalf turned to Aragorn once again. “Théoden has a strong will, but I fear for him. I fear for the survival of Rohan.” Gandalf glanced at Amelia, who squared her jaw and let determination light her eyes. The wizard gave her a small, strained smile. “He will need you before the end, Aragorn. The people of Rohan will need you.” He looked them both in the eyes. “The defenses have to hold.”   
“They will hold.” Aragorn promised.  
“They will hold.” Amelia echoed, feeling like a liar. Gandalf looked doubtful as he turned and stroked the neck of the horse.   
“‘The Grey Pilgrim’. That’s what they used to call me. Three-hundred lifetimes of men have I walked this earth and now, I have no time.” He effortlessly swung himself up on the steed, who scraped the ground impatiently with its hooves. Aragorn opened the gate of the booth. “With luck, my search will not be in vain.”  
“You’re leaving?” Amelia exclaimed, but then she sighed. “Right. ‘Course you are. Forget I said anything.”   
“Look to my coming, at first light on the second morning from this moment. At dawn, look to the east.” Aragorn nodded, to show that he had both heard and understood.  
“Go.” His word came out close to a whisper, but Gandalf nodded gravely and set off, the white horse flying through the stable with an elegance and strength that shouldn’t have been possible for a mere animal. Legolas and Gimli, who had just entered the stable, had to jump aside to avoid being trampled and Amelia caught a final glimpse of Gandalf’s white robes before he disappeared into Edoras and out into the plains of Rohan. 

Amelia was horrified to learn that, due to her wearing a dress, she had to ride sidesaddle, since Aragorn insisted that she had walked enough to reach Edoras and that she had earned a horse to ride on, as if it was a reward for her hard work. To Amelia, it was a punishment for her injury, a testament to her physical weakness. She felt even worse when she learned that Lady Éowyn would be walking, even though she couldn’t quite say why. She got the feeling that Aragorn somehow sensed her displeasure, for he insisted that he had to ride on his horse, a tall, brown stallion called Brego, near her, to keep watch on her injuries.   
For the life of her, Amelia couldn’t figure out why Boromir asked to follow her as well, for he had gotten his own horse too, though that was more due to his status than his need.   
The long procession left Edoras late at night, with Théoden at its head and Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli after him. Progress was slow due to the many people traveling at once and the fact that many did not have a horse to do the legwork for them. Éowyn held the reins of the horse that Gimli sat upon, as well as the reins of Amelia’s steed, walking on the ground alongside the lowly peasants, and Amelia could see in their eyes the respect and love they had for the shield-maiden of Rohan. She envied her herself, for riding side-saddle was, in her humble opinion, far worse than normal riding, which she had only tried once before but taken an immediate disliking to. A gentle wind blew across the moors in the night and Amelia had to continually brush brown hair out of her eyes.   
“I meant to tell you…” Aragorn called to her as he steered his horse towards her, so that their steeds could walk beside each other. “We did not find Merry and Pippin in our hunt, but…”  
“I know.” Amelia interrupted, tapping her temple. She grinned at him. “I know stuff, remember? It’s why I’m here. Because I know stuff.”   
“That may be the reason you were brought here, but I doubt it is the reason you stayed.” Amelia cocked an eyebrow at Aragorn.   
“There you go, speaking that grand mumbo-jumbo of yours again. How you ever manage to hold a conversation around here, I’ll never know.” Aragorn smiled at her exasperation.   
“Eh, in our lands, we don’t waste time with frilly formalities!” Gimli butted in, shaking his finger at them. “We find better time to spend our words and time on.”   
“Like trying to figure our which dwarves are the female ones?” Amelia suggested innocently. “Aren’t your people the one where both the men and women have beards?” She saw Éowyn barely restraining a smile at the sound of their banter and she felt that same satisfaction at making her smile rise again.   
“Why yes, that have actually given ground to much confusion!” Gimli exclaimed merrily and shuffled in his saddle. His horse looked pretty unhappy about that. “In fact, there are rumors abound that there are no dwarf women, and that dwarves simply…” He waved his hands. “Spring out from the rock itself!” He chortled and Amelia saw Éowyn’s mask finally breaking as she laughed, a beautiful, natural sound that was much more befitting than her normally cold exterior. “Which is, of course, ridiculous…” Gimli made a loud gasp as his horse lost its patience and ran forwards, forcing Éowyn to let go of its reins and making Gimli roll off and land in the grass, shouting that it was entirely intentional on his part, to make the horse do whatever it had done. Amelia laughed at the sight as Éowyn hurried to his side, laughing as well, and Amelia saw Théoden looking back at his niece with a fond expression.   
“What’s ridiculous is your poor attempts at riding a horse!” Amelia called to him between her laughs. “Even I’m better than that!” Her horse flicked its ears and she gave it a nervous look. “That was not a challenge.” She muttered at it and Éowyn’s laughter rang like a bubbling river.   
“I haven’t heard you laugh for a while.” Boromir’s voice reached her ears and she saw still smiling when she turned her head towards him.   
“I haven’t had reason to.” She answered back as her grey mare flicked its ears at a fly and Éowyn tried to help Gimli back on his horse. “It does feel… good.” To keep the conversation flowing, she looked to the south, to the mountains covered in snow rising there. “Gondor is behind those mountains, isn’t it?”  
“It is.” Boromir nodded and Amelia smiled to herself. If she could just get Boromir back to his homeland, back to his family and back to the life he deserved, she would be content.  
“No, no, it’s alright…” Gimli waved his arms as Éowyn finally got him back on his horse and Amelia hesitantly clucked her tongue at her horse. It was a calm female, she had been assured, one not suited for battle or quick sprints, with a calm temper and a good amount of patience. It didn’t go into a trot, but it did quicken its pace briefly to catch up to Éowyn, who took its reins again. The bumping of the quick walk made Amelia gasp and tighten her grip on her saddle, for fear of sliding off just as Gimli had done. Amelia shook her head and gently touched her shoulder, which had begun to throb at the jolts of the quickened pace, and winced when it hurt.   
“Does it pain you?” Aragorn easily caught up to her with his expertly handling of his own steed and his sharp eyes did not miss the flash of pain on Amelia’s face. She was about to shake her head automatically, but knew that that would only alarm Aragorn further.   
“Yeah. It does. It’s not too bad though. Don’t worry.”  
“I’ll refer to your judgment for now…” Aragorn hesitated and Amelia sighed.   
“I’m sensing a ‘but’ there…”  
“But I do think that, in whatever fight may come, that you should not participate.” Amelia gaped at him, but then she thought it through. She narrowed her eyes, as if she was about to argue, and she could see Aragorn steeling himself for her refusal.   
“It wasn’t my swordarm I got injured.” She reminded him instead and she could tell that he was surprised by her logical thinking.   
“That might be so, but it will still hinder you.” Instead of a verbal battle of will or temper, it had become one of reasoning and wits.   
“Sure, but lots of people fight on with an injury and even if we make it to Helm’s Deep, we’re still outnumbered. Saruman has a lot of orcs, Aragorn.” She put special emphasis on the words ‘a lot’. She lowered her voice even further so that he had to lean against her to hear. “They’re going to make boys fight. Children, Aragorn. Even with my stupid arm, I’m still more capable than a teenage boy and they’re going to get sent out to fight. To stay while they went out to fight for me, in a fight that they should never have to be in… It wouldn’t be right and you know it.” Aragorn sighed and leaned back in his saddle.  
“When did you get so reasonable?” He wondered and Amelia’s mouth quirked upwards.   
“Since I found out that it was more effective than yelling swears. Doesn’t mean I won’t stop doing that too though.”   
“I know you too well to assume as such.” Aragorn smiled at her and she smiled back at him.   
“Don’t worry. If we run into trouble before we get there, I won’t go running into it unless I have no choice.”   
“That is good to hear.” Amelia caught sight of the Evenstar gleaming on his chest and her eyes rested on it for a moment longer than necessary before she turned away, content with simply absorbing the rocking feel of the walk of the horse in her hips and how the breeze made her hair dance like a flag.


	18. All That Remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There is no disgrace in staying behind, not when it’s the right thing.”  
> -Nora Roberts

Amelia didn’t feel nearly as much of an ache in her thighs as she would have expected when she was finally allowed to dismount her horse, since the long procession had stopped their wandering westwards for a while, to tend to their children and their elderly and to allow the weary people a few hours of rest before they would have to move on. Amelia had been riding through the entire night and was thus relieved to finally get out of the position she had been sitting in for hours on end. She stretched and jumped a little on her feet, but was so tired from staying awake for a day and a night that it didn’t take her long to find a comfortable spot on the ground, after pulling her backpack down from her horse. It had been tied to her, like a makeshift saddlebag. She used it as a pillow, as she had many times before and her eyes drooped as she looked up towards the sky. Then, the sound of voices, low but intense, as if they were having an argument they did not want others to hear, reached her ears and she drowsily turned her head towards it. It looked like Boromir and Aragorn and Amelia vaguely wondered whether Boromir would be foolish enough to suggest that they turn towards Minas Tirith again, but dismissed the idea as nonsensical. She decided to ignore them, even as Aragorn gestured towards her, probably figuring that she had already fallen asleep. It did not take her long to do so indeed, but she woke no more than a few hours later when she was gently shaken awake. It was Legolas, his fair face hovering over her with a slight frown.  
“We need to move on. Our rest has ended.” He informed her and she groaned, swatting at him with her good hand.  
“G’way.” She mumbled and nearly fell back into the tempting realm of sleep once again, but he would not relent. He shook her again, a bit rougher, and she shook her head, finally sitting up with a tremendous yawn. “This is just inhumane.” She grumbled as she looked up at the sky with bleary eyes. Dawn had broken, the yellow sun rising above the eastern horizon, but it was still early in the day and she shivered, rubbing her arms as she clumsily got to her feet.  
“Here.” A gentle voice said and she blinked, trying to clear her foggy vision. It was Éowyn, holding out a soft piece of dark bread. “Eat. You will need it. We still have a ways to go and you haven’t eaten anything since we left the city behind.” Amelia begrudgingly took the large piece of bread and bit into it. It was another thing she had noticed about Middle-Earth, a small detail, but one that she was reminded of every time she ate; since they couldn’t filter their flour as well as what Amelia was used to, it wasn’t uncommon to find tiny stones in the bread.  
“Thanks.” Amelia remembered to swallow before she spoke and cringed at the thought of spitting crumbs all over Éowyn. The shield-maiden nodded and turned away, off to find the next person in need of her presence. Amelia watched her go with a mix of admiration and resignation.  
She was not pleased to mount her horse again, after she had ensured that her backpack was bound securely to the side of the horse, but she knew that she should feel grateful that she didn’t have to walk like the majority of the other people in their abnormally long procession and did not complain for that reason alone. She shuffled uncomfortably in her saddle, readying herself for another few hours of boredom and numbness. 

Amelia slid off her horse, slowly, and took its reins to walk beside it as she surveyed the chaos around her. About half an hour after they had gotten underway again, they could see faint trails of smoke rising to the west. Then, they happened upon its source and a profound silence fell upon the entire procession as they saw with their own eyes what had been done to the westfold.  
The golden grass had been burned and was charred black and trampled. The sorry remains of a few farms, what had probably been no more than a small farming village, were only the stone foundations of the houses. Thin skeletons of the wood the walls had been made of still stood, charred black and ash grey. The smell of fire was heavy in the air and the smoke made Amelia’s eyes water. The carnage stretched for miles, as if some manner of loathsome party had ridden through the riddermark, burning and pillaging wherever they went and pleased.  
“Saruman.” Éowyn’s voice had grown cold again as she mournfully overlooked the burnt remains of the westfold. “His orcs and the dunlendings have caused deep wounds in these lands.” Amelia glanced at her, grateful for any excuse to tear her eyes away from the horrible sight.  
“Wounds can heal.” She looked towards Théoden, whose expression had fallen grim. He didn’t dismount his tall horse, but Aragorn and Boromir did, to walk alongside their horses.  
Amelia had often wondered what the “burning of the westfold” entailed in detail, but she was nowhere happy with the answer that she received. The corpses of dead horses, even the burnt shapes of a few men, women and children lay strewn around like rag dolls, impaled on crude spears and burned to the point of being unrecognizable, even to close kin.  
She walked through it in silence, for she felt that any words of outrage would be inadequate and any words of comfort would feel hollow once they had been spoken.  
“Did you know that this would happen?” Boromir sounded more resigned than accusatory, but his words set Amelia on defense immediately. He had approached her, dragged his horse forwards so that he could walk beside her and Éowyn.  
“No. I mean, I knew it would, but… not the extent of it.” Amelia quashed the urge to start an argument to get her feeling aired and shook her head slightly. “This is… unbelievable.” She stepped over the remains of what looked like a broken fence.  
“Have you never been in a war?” He asked her and it occurred to her that he probably believed that, even though Moria had been her first fight, she had probably seen war from a distance. It took a few seconds for her to answer.  
“No. Never. Not even close. Moria was my first fight. This is my first war. Soon, I’ll be in my first battle.” Her answer did not seem to please Boromir, who frowned at her with that strange look in his eyes again, the one she couldn’t quite place. The fact that she wasn’t certain how to read him only served to irritate her. “What?”  
“Should you not refrain from taking part in this… battle that you are sure that is to come?” Amelia gaped at him, as if he had suggested something utterly outrageous.  
“No!” She exclaimed, refusing to remain in safety for the second time. “Aragorn already tried and I told him- Did he put you up to this?” She accused, knowing full well that Aragorn wouldn’t dare. “And why are you so concerned all of a sudden? Wait a minute…” Her eyes narrowed at him as she realized, at last, what the feeling that she couldn’t read was. “You’re… actually concerned.”  
“Should I not be? You said it yourself; we shouldn’t be here. The others may be fated to live or doomed to die, but we…”  
“I know.” The anger seeped out of her, leaving only faint annoyance behind. “Technically… No, I shouldn’t tell you that. I can’t tell you that. We’re the enigmas in the fight, so… tell you what, I’ll make you a deal.” Boromir raised his eyebrows at her.  
“Well, you have my attention.” Amelia grinned half-heartedly at him.  
“I’ll watch your ass, make sure to get you out of there somewhat intact. You return the favor.” Boromir hesitated, but then he nodded, albeit reluctantly.  
“Very well.” He agreed and Amelia’s grin widened into a far more sincere one.  
“Awesome.” Silence reined for a little while, but then Amelia caught Éowyn looking at her with a strange little smile and she raised her eyebrows at her. Boromir ignored the both of them once again. “What are you smirking at?” It could hardly be described as a smirk, but Amelia decided to be optimistic for the sake of her new friend.  
“Merely an old thing that I have seen many times before.” Was the cryptic answer and Amelia rolled her eyes.  
“Thanks a bunch. Very helpful. That explains so much.” Éowyn nearly laughed, but then she disappeared behind her cold mask again and they were left to travel through the wasteland in silence.  
To one not experienced with such things, it would seem as if the chaos of Saruman’s forced would never see an end, but like all things it did and the hills began to grow steeper. It was nearing noon and Amelia could hear the distant churning of a river. The golden grass had become rather green and more boulders were scattered across the landscape than before. For some reason, it made Amelia uneasy.  
“We will reach Helm’s Deep soon.” Éowyn reassured her. “Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”  
“I know.” Amelia mumbled, her eyes flittering about and she tightened her grip on the reins of the horse. Small bushes and trees were scattered around them and Amelia noticed that a little ahead of them, at the top of the tall hill they were crossing, stood Legolas like a statue, overlooking what lay behind the hill. Then, distant shouting and snarling reached her ears and she stiffened, suddenly remembering that they were not to reach Helm’s Deep without their fair share of troubles. Then, an inhuman scream, probably from a dying horse, came from beyond the hill and Aragorn rushed ahead.  
“Éowyn…” Amelia’s hand shot out involuntarily and grasped Éowyn’s. “It’s wargs. Warg scouts. They’re just behind that hill, we… we have to go!” The shrill scream of an orc reached her ears and she saw that Legolas had rushed down the hill, assumingly to kill the orc riding the warg with a well-placed shot from his bow. Amelia’s horse suddenly pulled on its reins and made a loud, distressed sound and Amelia immediately let it go, scrambling backwards as it jumped and bucked at the smell of approaching enemies.  
“Aragorn, what do you see?” Théoden called as he rode up to meet Aragorn, who was rushing back down the hill.  
“Wargs, we’re under attack!” Aragorn shouted wildly and Amelia felt Éowyn’s grip on her hand tighten.  
“Friggin’ called it!” Amelia spat the words out, despite the fear she felt as she remembered the muscular, wolf-like creatures that the wargs were. As Aragorn reached them, Éowyn quickly handed him Brego’s reins and he swung himself up. Panic seized the peasants alongside them and Amelia turned her head around wildly, intent on finding Boromir and Gimli in the crowd. She quickly spotted the dwarf attempting to get up on his horse, insisting that he didn’t need any help, but Boromir was nowhere to be found.  
“Where’s Boromir?” She yelled, but no one heard her, too preoccupied with their own terror to notice her yelling. Distant barking caught her attention and her worry spiked upwards.  
“You must lead the people to Helm’s Deep and make haste.” She heard Théoden say to Éowyn. He had ridden back to them, but Éowyn did not look pleased with his command as she attempted to mount her horse.  
“I can fight…” She began hotly, but her uncle would hear none of it.  
“No!” He exclaimed harshly, without looking regretful afterwards. “You must do this…” He lowered his voice as Amelia rushed towards Éowyn again. “For me.” She heard him plead and Amelia felt a surge of anger towards the king, for his playing dirty. Then, Théoden turned away from his niece and rode up the hill once again.  
“Follow me!” He called to the riders and Amelia spotted Aragorn riding towards him. Then, she caught sight of Boromir on his horse, riding up the hill as well and she bit her cheek in the frustration of her having made a promise not to get into any fights before the battle of Hornburg.  
“Éowyn!” Amelia called and reached out with her good arm. The shield-maiden gave her a hard look. “We can do this. You can do this.” Amelia tried to reassure her, but it didn’t seem to work, as she was pointedly ignored.  
“Make for the lower road! Stay together!” Éowyn called and Amelia looked back over her shoulder at Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli riding off to fight without her and, for a moment, she understood Éowyn in feeling like a bird in a cage.  
“Christ on a bike, that damned man is going to be the death of me…” Amelia mumbled, feeling that the sentence applied to every one of her friends, before she rushed down the slope to catch up to Éowyn, who was helping an old woman up. She had stumbled and fallen and Amelia caught her other arm. Together, Éowyn got her back on her feet and then, there was only running, running and thinking and thinking led to worrying and worrying made Amelia irrationally angry. Angry at her friends for riding off without her, angry at herself for allowing herself to get injured and angry at the world for placing her into such a situation at all.  
True to Éowyn’s word though, they only had to run for about thirty minutes before they came down from another hill and they could see the solid structure of Helm’s Deep, nestled in a ravine, ready to house and welcome them to temporary safety and refuge from whatever foulness might have awaited them, had they stayed out in the plains for much longer. The thirty minutes had been rushed and filled with frights and fear, and Amelia’s side stung after her sprint, but the promise of safety made her willing to endure it for the small while it would take for them to enter the Hornburg.  
The keep was massive and solid, strong and old and Amelia though that it looked like it had endured many hardships, but come out of them all the stronger for it.  
“Wow…” She breathed with an impressed smile, but it didn’t seem like anyone heard her. Cries of “Helm’s Deep!” and “We’re saved!” rang through the long procession and Amelia locked eyes with Éowyn, who gave her an exhausted, melancholic smile, nodded her head at her and then made her way down the hill, looking every inch a daughter of kings. 

A pair of guards, clad in chainmail and carrying spears, pushed the large, heavy doors into the Hornburg open and it swung inwards to reveal high walls of stone and a statue, perched proudly on a high pedestal overlooking whoever entered the keep. He bored a helmet of rohirric design and a large horn at his side, making Amelia assume that it was a statue of Helm Hammerhand, the namesake of the keep. The refugees spilled inside, overjoyed to have reached their destination at last and, in a rare moment of thinly veiled weakness, Amelia leaned against a carriage carrying sacks of food and sparse medicine, mindful of her still sore wound, allowed her weariness to show on her face. She felt close to weeping at the loss of her backpack, since her horse had disappeared and her backpack had been tied to it. She felt gaunt and ragged, but she reminded herself that compared to those she had traveled with, she looked like a Lady. Then, she frowned, willing herself to indulge the thought, since no one paid her any mind for the moment and she didn’t have anywhere to be.  
She reached the surprising conclusion that, while she was plain at best by her own standards, by the standards of the men of Middle-Earth, she was in perfect health and not bad-looking. While the faces of the folk surrounding her were gaunt, their skin stretched over their bones, her face was bordering on curvy and, compared to their sallow complexions, she looked to be at the prime of her life, with reasonably clear skin and a healthy look about her. Her teeth weren’t blinding, but they were clear and straight, rather than yellowed and none of them were broken. Her eyes shone clearer than the peasants’, for she knew that she had more to look forward to in the future than another day working the field or bowing to a king. She had never truly considered how much her good nutrition, dental visits and soaps might have done for her as a child. The thought made her feel odd, though not in a bad manner, but did nothing to alleviate the exhaustion that had settled in her bones and she felt her eyes drooping, even as she stood alone, with only her thoughts for company. Éowyn was busy directing supplies and assuring the frightened women that their men, brothers and sons would return from the fight.  
“Make way for Théoden! Make way for the king!” She heard the words shouted and she whirled around, the clench in her chest only growing worse as she did not recognize any of the men returning to the keep, save from the king on his white horse. She rushed after the procession, who had ridden inside the keep and swung themselves down from their steeds when they reached a small plaza, probably designed specifically for that. She tried to ignore the fact that the numbers of the riders had diminished somewhat, compared to the amount of riders who had ridden against the wargs.  
“Our people are safe.” She heard Théoden tell Éowyn, who was pale and had a worried look on her fair face. “We have paid for it with many lives.” He helped an injured man off his brown horse.  
“My lady…” Amelia saw Gimli, without his helmet, walking towards Éowyn and leaning on his axe.  
“Lord Aragorn… where is he?” Éowyn asked carefully, as if she feared the answer she knew that she would get. Gimli’s breath hitched slightly.  
“He fell.” His voice was mournful and solemn and, for a moment, Éowyn’s face fell and she gave her uncle a desperate look. He did not correct the dwarf and before Amelia could assure her that the ranger was fine, she rushed away, her golden hair bouncing with each quick step.  
“Gimli.” Amelia stepped towards the dwarf, who sighed at her. “He’s… Aragorn will… he’ll meet us here later.” Gimli’s eyes brightened considerably and a weak smile crossed his face.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Positive. I’m tired as heck too, but, well… that doesn’t have anything to do with him. He just took a bit of a… a detour.”  
“Then at least there are some good news.” She whirled around to see Boromir, with a large bruise blossoming on his jaw and her eyes widened.  
“Boromir…” She took his face in her hands to inspect the bruise, gently tipping his head back. “What happened?” The bruise went down his neck as well, but his jaw had been hit the hardest.  
“An orc nearly took his head off.” Gimli chipped dryly and Amelia gave him an incredulous look. “Keyword being ‘nearly’.”  
“I can see that.” Amelia turned back to Boromir, whose face she still cradled in her palms. “God help me, if they’d taken your head off, shoulder be damned, I’d have ridden back to slaughter every one of the assholes myself.” She stopped herself, confused at her strong words and the sincerity behind them. Boromir’s mouth quirked slightly upwards.  
“Then it’s a good thing they didn’t. Have you had a change of bandages yet?” Amelia blinked at him and her mouth formed a small ‘o’ as her hands fell to hand at her side.  
“You know, I don’t think I have. I might have to get that fixed, but I’m not about to drop dead. I’ll wait until after the orcs come here.” She had lowered her voice, as to not incite a mass panic in the people still surrounding them. “Until after the fight. If I’m dead by then, I won’t need them. If I’m alive but others need bandages more, I’ll wait until they’ve gotten what they need. Don’t spread the word, but I don’t think we have a lot of supplies, medicine and food, you know.” Boromir looked worried at that prospect.  
“If you catch an infection…”  
“If I haven’t yet, I doubt I will before tomorrow.” Amelia crossed her arms, prepared to fight with tooth and nail for her right to put herself in danger of dying from a wound weeks old by then. Surprisingly, Boromir rubbed his face with his hand and sighed.  
“I know better than to argue with you when you are being like this.” He muttered and Amelia grinned triumphantly.  
“Good to know that you’re acknowledging my stubbornness at last. Now, I’m sure someone around here has something for me to do… and I should probably tell Éowyn that her latest crush is not, in fact, dead as dead can be. Catch you guys later.” Amelia hurried off to find Éowyn, feeling Gimli’s and Boromir’s eyes resting on her for a while before she was sure that they had turned away, to tend to other matters. She didn’t know where she ought to look to put herself to good use, but knew that there would be plenty of work to be done before nightfall. With her head held high, she sped her pace, studying each face and their hollow eyes closely as she passed them and a grim determination settled in her gut, that she would fight for them and perhaps die in the process, but it would be final, hopefully swift and worth it in the end.


	19. Stepping Backwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.”   
> -Dwight D. Eisenhower

“Lady Amelia! Where is the Lady Amelia?” Amelia looked up from her work, to see a rohirric guard asking the healers and Amelia gave the man she was working on an apologetic look. Then, she turned and called out for the nearest nurse, asking her to take over for a moment, since she was needed elsewhere. The nurse begrudgingly did so and Amelia wiped her bloody hands on her brown dress. Her arms were covered in blood and sticky gore up to her elbows, since she had had to roll up her sleeves to work with those tending to the wounded. At one point, there had been no one else available and she had to physically shove a man’s guts back inside his body. She had thrown up afterwards, but no one seemed surprised and she continued on with her work after having caught some fresh air for a few minutes. By then, it was late in the day, the sun having begun to set. Her hair was loose, with a lock from each side of her face hastily tied together at the back of her head, to free her face from any hair, but a few loose strands still hung down and she was covered in sweat.   
“She’s right here.” Amelia called to the guard, hurrying towards him. “Please don’t tell me you’ve found another one who needs his entrails stuffed back in place.” The guard shook his head, covered in chainmail so that only his face was visible. He looked young, with dark blonde scruff and foggy, blue eyes.   
“No, my lady. The king requests your presence, and so does Lord Aragorn.” Amelia raised her eyebrows at the man.   
“So he’s back. Give me a moment to wash my hands and I’ll be right there.” Amelia didn’t have time to wash all the gore off of her arms, only hastily dip her palms in a bowl of water and slosh a bit of it on her face without drying it. Her dress was splattered with droplets of water, blood and a hint of bile as she hurried through the keep, paying no mind to the guards who glanced at her nervously as she threw open the doors to the king’s hall herself, leaving sticky handprints behind when her palms left the wood.  
“You rang?” She kept her voice light and conversational, despite the fact that she appeared covered in sweat and with bloody arms. Théoden stood conversing with Aragorn, who truly did look like he had fallen in a river and dragged himself back out of it, Legolas, who looked as calm as ever, Gimli, who wore his helmet once again, and Boromir, who looked weary and tired already. The king turned towards her and frowned a bit at her filthy appearance.   
“I did call for you.” He simply stated and Amelia raised her eyebrows.   
“I assume you didn’t bring me here just to enjoy more of my charming personality.” Théoden scoffed softly and Amelia hurried over, to punch Aragorn lightly on the shoulder. “No more cliff-diving from now on. Got it?” Aragorn gave her a weary grin, one that she returned.   
“Aragorn and Lord Boromir tells me you have some manner of… foresight.” Théoden didn’t sound like he thought much of that. “While I may be… skeptical of any claim of such abilities, have you any information to offer, I would accept it.” Amelia blinked at the unexpected proposal and hesitated with answering him.   
“I’m afraid I can’t just… tell you everything. If I tell you something good’s going to happen, you might get lazy and then that might not happen after all and if I tell you something bad’s going to happen, you’ll probably try to avoid it and, well…” She glanced quickly at Boromir. “That just might make it worse, or even better, change things so badly that it changes how everything’s supposed to go and then, I’ll be entirely useless to you, but, that being said… what do you want to know?” Théoden looked unhappy with her statement, but he turned away from them and stood still, hands clasped behind his back.   
“By which time will the forces of Isengard reach us?” He asked and Amelia felt a small pang of relief at getting a question that she was able to answer.   
“Soon after dark, I think. They’ll attack when it start to rain, if it does.” She was aware that she was being a little vague and confusing, but her need to only tell what was necessary trumped the one to do what was right.   
“And their numbers?”   
“Ten thousand strong at least.” Aragorn spoke before Amelia could and she remembered that he had probably seen the approaching army when he made his way to the Hornburg. Théoden turned around with a horrified expression.  
“Ten thousand?” He echoed, his eyes despairing.   
“Saruman isn’t pulling any punches.” Amelia shifted a bit on her feet.   
“It is an army bred for a single purpose.” Théoden stepped closer to Aragorn, to better hear his explaining of his ominous words. “To destroy the world of men.”  
“Well, that’s cheery.” Amelia mumbled the words to herself as Théoden turned and strode out the hall, a grim expression dawning on his face.  
“Let them come.” His words were bold, but dark, and Amelia grimaced as she, Aragorn and Boromir hurried after him. Legolas and Gimli stayed behind. As Théoden gave out orders left and right, Amelia and Boromir began a quiet discussion.   
“You’ve been working with the healers?” Boromir eyed the gunk on her arms.   
“Yeah. They needed the extra hands. I don’t think I’m very good at it though. I’m still not sure whether I shoved that guy’s intestines in the right way or not. Either way, I doubt he’ll actually make it, but that was just a warm-up. It’s going to get much worse very soon.”  
“Aye, it will.”   
“I want every man and strong lad able to bear arms to be ready for battle by nightfall.” Théoden’s orders were determined and the man he gave them to nodded and hurried away, to spread the word of the king’s command. He strode out the large doors leading into the keep, stepping back to watch the men working to enforce and bar it from the inside. “We will cover the way in from above.” He told Aragorn and Amelia blinked, her mind snapping back to the old, medieval siege games Tobias had always been so fascinated with.   
“Do you have any oil?” She asked the question abruptly, realizing that it did not make much sense.   
“For what purpose?” Théoden asked brusquely.   
“Well… if you had enough, you could boil it and pour it down on those dumb enough to attempt getting into the keep via the front door. That might discourage them from taking the obvious route.” Théoden’s eyes lit up with interest and he gave her a short nod.   
“It will be so, my lady.” Amelia stared at him.   
“What, just like that?” She exclaimed at the king. “Well, that was easier than I thought…”   
“No enemies has ever set foot inside the Hornburg or breached its walls.” Théoden declared proudly and Amelia’s confidence faltered slightly.   
“No offense, but these aren’t just… orcs. Uruk-Hai are worse, so much worse. They nearly killed me and they’re stronger, smarter, more powerful and… and Saruman has an army of the damn things!” Théoden stepped closer to her and both Aragorn and Boromir tensed.   
“I have fought many wars, Lady Amelia. I know how to defend my own keep.”   
“Then why take my suggestion about the oil at all? Get off your high horse, would you? This is about more than how many wars we’ve fought in, but of course it all comes down to who thinks the highest of themselves in the end.”   
“Amelia.” Boromir snapped at her and she swung towards him and clenched her fists.   
“Don’t even start. I don’t know how many, but a lot of good people are going to die tonight, no matter what we do, but just how many really depends on how big a fool the king decides to be.” Théoden’s blue eyes narrowed at her.   
“I would have you thrown in the dungeon…” He threatened and Amelia snarled silently at him. The tension was thick in the air. “Had I not needed your swordarm on this very evening.” Amelia laughed coldly at his words as she held her head high, boldly meeting his eyes.   
“Throwing people in jail for telling the truth?” She spat venomously. “No wonder you people are still stuck fighting with swords and bows. You, all of you…” She glared at Boromir, Aragorn and Théoden, backing away. “You are definitely the stupidest people I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.” She snorted mockingly. “Kings. Swordfighting. Horseriding. Fucking wars and men telling women to mind their own fucking business while they go out playing hero and treat us like cattle.” Her eyes flamed and her voice cracked through the air like a whip. “I wish I had never met you, I… I wish I had never been dragged into this mess to begin with! And I just had to lose my backpack too!” She lowered her voice, hissing the words out between her teeth. “When I find Gandalf, I am going straight home. No more prophesies. No more fighting. No more of this fucked-up fairytale that I’ve fooled myself into thinking I could actually live!” She shouted the last words out, letting them ring out in the valley before she turned around with stinging eyes. She stormed back into the keep and the crowd parted for her at her stormy expression, as if she was a leper. She didn’t realize that she was being followed until someone grabbed her good arm and yanked her back. She stared into Boromir’s stern face and tried to pull her arm free.   
“Let me go!” She spat at him.  
“No.” His grip tightened slightly when she pulled again. “You are not thinking clearly.”   
“I am!” She yelled angrily, getting a few odd looks from the armed men hurrying past them. “I am the only damn person here thinking clearly! You’re all… you’re so… frustrating!” Amelia finally managed to yank her arm free of Boromir’s grasp, but she was too caught up in her argument to walk away from him.   
“And may I ask why you are angry at me as well?” He raised his voice slightly. “What have I done to deserve this?”   
“Shut up!” Amelia yelled at him aggressively. “I’m not listening to anything you have to say!”   
“Think about what you’re saying for once!” He spat back at her, gesturing wildly with his hands. “You don’t hate us and you don’t want to go home. It’s not in your nature to give up once you’ve committed yourself to a cause!”  
“And who said I ever committed to anything?” Amelia turned and stomped away, but Boromir kept following her. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t agree to this. All I ever did was get dragged into another world’s war without so much as a warning.”  
“But you intend to see this through.” He sounded so sure of himself.   
“And how would you know?”  
“Because I know you.” Amelia froze, but didn’t turn around to look at him. Then, her shoulders sagged and she crossed her arms. She rubbed her face with her right hand and hung her head.   
“Damn you.” Her voice was little more than a weak whisper. “Damn you all to hell.” Then, she straightened her back and fled and she felt only the tiniest flutter of relief when Boromir decided to let her be and not to follow her.   
Amelia’s feet carried her aimlessly around the keep and, for a moment, she saw Éowyn hurrying towards the caves of the inner keep, where the women and children were to hide from the Uruk-Hai during the fight, but she didn’t call out to her, for she looked busy enough already. Instead, Amelia, after a scant half an hour of walking around with no particular purpose to it, found herself in the armory, where elderly men, young boys and a few guards were already getting outfitted. As she hurried inside, more men came to join those already there, looking terrified beyond all reason at the prospect of taking part in a battle.   
Amelia knew that, while she may attend to the wounded and walk many miles in a dress, she could not go into a battle in one, but as it turned out, the rohirrim could take care of that easily enough. She insisted on keeping on her black boots and pants, but she was provided with a sturdy chainmail, thankfully not one of those that went up to cover the head as well, and a tight, brown leather cuirass to pull on over it. It wasn’t exactly fashionable, but Amelia did not complain once she saw the fearful, hopeless faces of the old men and the young boys getting their pieces as well.   
Guards handed out sword, spears, bows and arrows, but even though Amelia made no claim to understanding swords, even she could tell that most of the blades were rusty or dull and the feathers on the bows were broken on the majority.   
Silence suddenly fell among the scuffling men and Amelia stretched to see Aragorn and Legolas facing each other, neither one of them looking particularly happy in that moment. Amelia couldn’t judge whether they were unhappy with the situation or each other. She settled for a mix between the two. Legolas turned away and said something in elvish, which Aragorn answered with obvious faked hope.   
“Aragorn…” Legolas said, but then said something intense in elvish with a grim expression.   
“Then I shall die as one of them!” Aragorn cried and stepped forwards, but then he realized that most weren’t so stupid as to be unable to deduce what their discussion had been about from that sentence alone and he rushed away, leaving Legolas standing alone. Then, Legolas turned and, for a brief moment, Amelia looked him in the eye. She didn’t smile or shake her head, but merely held his gaze for a moment before she turned away as well, hurrying after Aragorn.   
“Hey!” She called after him as she rushed after him. He was walking down a staircase quickly, his hands shaking, but he whirled as soon as she called for him and she nearly walked into him.  
“How?” His voice was hoarse. “How do we have any hope of making it through the night?” It was the first time Amelia had heard his voice shake and she frowned. It did not become him to be so desperate.   
“We do have it.” Amelia answered in a hollow voice, for she knew that whatever comfort she could provide would only end up having disastrous consequences, due to her having to reveal too much of what was to happen. “Remember Gandalf? He said he’ll be back. I doubt he just rode off for the heck of it.” Aragorn’s eyes brightened slightly as he remembered the white wizard. “Aragorn?” He blinked at her. “Can I ask you for a favor?”   
“You can.” He nodded reluctantly. “But it does depend on the favor.”   
“Right.” Amelia shifted slightly on her feet and swung her arms. “Would you look after Boromir tonight?” Aragorn looked surprised at his request and she sighed. “I’m just… he’s one of the few people who I just don’t know anything about, you know? I don’t know what the future has in store for him. I’d be grateful if you kept an eye on him.” Aragorn gave her an even look, but then nodded slowly. Amelia exhaled. “Good. That’s… great. Thank you. Don’t tell him though. I doubt he’d appreciate me worrying about him.” Aragorn didn’t answer her and she awkwardly turned around, wondering why Aragorn suddenly looked at her with such a pensive look in his eyes.   
She shook the thought out of her head as she walked along the ramparts, looking out over the plains with a frown on her face. She rested a hand on her sword and desperately tried to convince herself that she was going to make it through the night, along with Boromir and all of her friends, but the nagging feeling that something was going to go wrong refused to leave her, making her irritated and restless in the hours that followed, where night truly fell on the Hornburg. She only grew more agitated when she realized that no elves were arriving and that that particular bit had ever actually happened or she had messed up somehow, greatly diminishing the chances of success at all by causing the absence of the elves. She began to chant a steady “shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…” to herself as she paced uneasily.   
“You claim to know of our victory or defeat… and you seem worried.” Amelia nearly had a heart attack at Legolas’ sudden appearance, standing calmly and looking at her with those piercing eyes of his.   
“Jesus!” She exclaimed, attempting to calm her quickened breathing. “You… damn elves and your elfiness. Yes, I’m bloody well worried, but I can assure you, my concern is entirely selfish and has nothing to do with anyone else.” She paused. “That came out wrong.” Legolas shook his fair head fondly at her and it occurred to Amelia that it was their first time talking since Amon Hen. “What about you? You didn’t exactly seem positive back in the armory.” Legolas’ face fell slightly and he frowned.  
“I worry for tonight.” He turned away. “But there is one thing that gives me cause to hope.”  
“Which is?” Amelia was fairly curious as to what spurred on Legolas, but she wasn’t prepared for the strange answer that she got.   
“Your presence.” He smiled slightly. “And that of Boromir as well. Do not misunderstand me.” He seemed quick to explain himself, due to the perplexed look that Amelia gave him. “You are a selfish person, but when you care for others, you get protective to the point of risking your life to keep them out of harm’s way. Were we all doomed to die this night, I doubt you would have brought Boromir here. You would have kept him, and yourself, safe.” The simplicity of the elf’s logic was slightly unnerving, but more so was the fact that, if they thought about it, anyone in the keep could reach the same conclusion quite easily. Amelia finally gave up wrestling with her will to keep her secret safe based on pure instinct and threw caution to the wind.  
“Alright. You got me. And you’re right. I am selfish. If this battle was lost before it began, I wouldn’t be here and if Boromir had tried to go here if we were going to lose, I’d have tied him up to prevent it.” Legolas gave her a small smile, one that she returned as she looked out into the darkness.   
Night was upon them.


	20. Blood and Broken Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In every battle there comes a time when both sides consider themselves beaten, then he who continues the attack wins.”   
> -Ulysses S. Grant

“Jesus Christ almighty…” Amelia whispered hoarsely as a flash of lightning lit up the approaching invaders.   
It had started to rain just as Amelia took her place beside Legolas and Gimli on the ramparts, shaking archers lined up on their sides. If Amelia turned, she knew that she could see Boromir standing with the king high up on a platform overlooking the keep and the field in front of it, a place of honor, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her do so.   
The army of Uruk-Hai marched forwards, stretching as far as the eye could see, a black sea of thick armor, broad shields and black spears. It was more than Amelia could have ever dreamed and she was grateful that, in the darkness and the rain, no one could see how her face went as white as a sheet.   
Worst was the fact that the orcs didn’t snarl or growl, but moved in silence, letting the ominous sound of their marching do all the intimidation they would need.   
The men around her were terrified. They weren’t soldiers or guards. They were farmers, stableboys and craftsmen. Most of them had probably never held a sword or shot an arrow in their lives. It was cruel, it was hard and it was necessary. It made Amelia want to vomit, but she easily kept down her latest meal. Concealing her emotions was something she was good at, but despite it, her fear still made her pale.   
Amelia was aware that, since Helm’s Deep had been built into the end of a ravine, the army of orcs effectively cut off any escape route they might have been able to take.   
“What is it?” Amelia glanced down at her side to see Gimli, who, with his low height, was unable to see what was going on because he wasn’t tall enough to see above the walls of the ramparts. The sight made a silly smile light up her face briefly before it fell again. Aragorn began to walk back and forth on the ramparts, behind the lines of men.  
“Show them no mercy…” He cried in a clear, commanding tone. Amelia wondered why her friend, the ranger who feared his own heritage, was acting like a king while the actual king, Théoden, hid up on his pedestal, overlooking the battle as if it didn’t apply to him. “For you shall receive none!”  
Then, seemingly without sense, the army of orcs stopped and Amelia’s grip on her sword tightened. They didn’t march further on the keep. They merely stood there, as if they were waiting for something.   
“What’s happening?” Gimli tried to jump, to see what was going on, but he had little success.  
“Shall I describe it to you?” Legolas smiled a strange, grim smile and looked at the dwarf. “Or would you like me to find you a box?” Amelia snorted and Gimli laughed up at the elf, despite the severity of their situation.   
Then, a guttural roar came from the dark mass of Uruk-Hai and, as if they had been practicing, they began slamming their weapons into the ground and banging on their shields, creating a deep, terrifying rhythm and Amelia could feel the vibration in the stone beneath her feet. The archers on the walls drew their bows and put arrows on their strings, each taking aim, but Amelia saw that several of their hands shook. The fact that they didn’t have any elven archers assisting them didn’t improve their confidence either. Amelia had expected aid to arrive from Lothlórien, but the night had been silent and Rohan had to fend for itself.   
An elderly man, with weakened arms and a dirty, white beard let his arrow go with a shocked expression, as if the movement of his own hands surprised him and the arrow flew through the air, embedding itself solidly in the neck of an orc on the frontal lines. Abruptly, the steady thumping of the army ceased as the orc fell forwards with a pathetic grunt and lay in the mud, as dead as it could ever get. Its fellow orcs snarled and threw their heads back, roaring into the night and they set into motion, storming towards the walls of the Hornburg with maddened fury.   
“Oh dear…” Amelia nearly stuttered, but managed to keep her voice steady.  
“Prepare to fire!” Aragorn shouted and those who hadn’t drawn their weapons and readied their arrows followed his orders without hesitation. Watching him command troops was inspiring; he was a ranger, a wanderer, covered in dirt and grime, but when faced with an army of orcs and men to command, his determination made him shine like the king he was born to be.   
“Their armor is weak at the neck and elbows.” Legolas informed the archers loudly, but he had barely spoken the words before Aragorn shouted again.   
“Release arrows!” The troops obeyed and a rain of arrows made the first lines of orcs stagger backwards and many fell, but they had thousands more to take the place of the fallen.   
“Did they hit anything?” Gimli shouted, jumping up and down, and Amelia nearly laughed and wept at the sight. Another wave of arrows killed more orcs, but it seemed as if there was no end to the approaching mass of Uruk-Hai. Then, men around her suddenly screamed as the orcs’ own archers fired their crude bows and crossbows and one of them fell down from the wall, only to be stomped on and trampled by the orcs.   
“Ladders!” Aragorn shouted as the orcs began to slam ladders up against the wall of the keep, swinging them upwards to they would land right in the middle of the men waiting for them.  
“Good!” Gimli’s exclamation drew some odd looks.   
The tops of the ladders slammed down on the walls and the orcs descended upon the men of Rohan, who scattered and shouted wildly amongst themselves, most of them waving their swords desperately and with such inexperience that Amelia thought to herself that, if their swordfighting didn’t kill the orcs, they would probably die of laughter from the pathetic display.   
Amelia didn’t have time to scream or to think as black, twisted shapes descended upon her. They showed and utilized the same raw power that those at Amon Hen had, only there were many more and Amelia suddenly felt regretful that she had insisted on partaking in the fight at all.   
She felt a blow to her stomach and she realized that, when she had blocked a blow from above with her sword, something that she had been taught not to do, she had bared her stomach and her opponent had taken the chance to kick her in the stomach. Amelia scrambled backwards as it raised its spear at her, but then Gimli leapt into the fray and cleaved its legs off of its body, sending its legless body rolling away from Amelia.   
“Legolas!” He shouted triumphantly, too caught up in the bloodbath to realize had had just saved Amelia’s life already. “Two already!” The elf whirled around with a grin.  
“I’m on seventeen!” His retort was met with a loud grunt of disbelief.   
“I’m not letting some pointy-ear outscore me!” He slammed his axe into the crotch of an orc emerging up the ladder and when it fell forwards, sent his weapon crashing down on its back. Amelia got to her feet and leapt back into the chaos, remembering stay light on her feet. She got the peculiar feeling that the orcs didn’t know how to anticipate her blows, but then she realized that, much like Aragorn, her time spent training with elves, Boromir and Aragorn himself, as well as her own moves she had developed instinctually when she got in a fight, had probably left her with a style that didn’t fit in with any group of fighters in Middle-Earth. She didn’t have time to think any good or bad thoughts about the unexpected revelation, for there were still thousands upon thousands of orcs massing against the walls of Helm’s Deep.   
As she turned once again, she met the eyes of a young boy. His helmet lay broken beside him and she only met his panicked, grey eyes for a short moment before an uruk-hai descended upon him from behind, cleaving his skull clean through with a mighty axe and blood sprayed.   
“Nineteen!” Legolas’ shout made Amelia oddly furious. They were in a battle, a bloody, brutal battle with people losing their lives around them and the elf and the dwarf made it up to be a game, a competition.   
“I’m on eleven!” She shouted and she heard Gimli laugh in his frenzy. “Twelve- no, thirteen!” In one fell swoop, she sent two heads flying through the air and her leather cuirass became splattered with black blood. Her blade was slick with it.   
She twisted where she stood and, since her blade had gone and gotten itself lodged in the ribcage of an uruk-hai, she had to knee the one that had been approaching her from behind in the groin. She quickly pulled Aeglos out of its victim and brought it to its next. She had to push hard and deep, but Aeglos slid into the orc’s skull and it gurgled on its owl howl of pain as it fell. Instead of wallowing in her moment of triumph, Amelia actively sought out her next victim. The same rush that had seized her in Moria had come again.   
A shout caught her attention and she saw Aragorn pointing at the entrance to the keep, where orcs were approaching the door. The archers turned towards them, firing arrows, but Amelia narrowed her eyes. The orcs weren’t so stupid as to try to enter through the front door alone. Her eyes widened then and she looked down to see several Uruk-Hai carrying large bombs, covered in spikes, down a small water outlet and placing them there in a pile.   
“Aragorn!” She had doubted he would hear her, but he turned towards her direction immediately, pushing through the fighting orcs and men as if his life depended on it.   
“Amelia?” He slid to a halt in front of her. The stones under their feet were slippery with blood and covered in bodies of both sides already.   
“Look!” She pointed towards the clear glow of a torch moving through the crowd of orcs and Aragorn’s eyes widened.  
“Legolas! Shoot him!” He pointed at the orc and not a moment later an arrow embedded itself in the shoulder of the orc carrying the torch, but it kept going, no doubt knowing that a fate worse than death awaited it if it dared stopping. “Togo hon dad, Legolas! Dago hon! Shoot him!” Another arrow hit the other shoulder of the orc and Amelia realized that she and Aragorn were standing right atop the water outlet.   
“Aragorn, we have to…” She cried, but then the orc carrying the torch threw itself into the water outlet and the words died in Amelia’s throat as she locked eyes with Aragorn.   
Then, she flew. She was a bird that had lost control of its wings as she was hurled through the air. Her eyes watered and her eyes rang painfully. She saw dark sky, then ground, then sky, then ground again. The ground approached quickly, but Amelia was so caught up in the intense pain flaring through her shoulder and the strange ringing sound in her ears that she didn’t realize that she was falling until she landed right on her injured shoulder. She felt force ripple through her and something warm and wet begin dripping down her shoulder, but then the pain slammed into her and her mouth opened in a silent scream. She had landed in a puddle on her shoulder and a spasm wrecked her body.   
All she knew was wet, throbbing, warm pain coursing through her veins, making them burn like liquid gold. In the distance, she heard her name, but it was like an echo, a distant whisper and then she was being pulled, pulled upwards by her good arm and someone slung her good arm around their shoulders and dragged her through the muck. She had no sense of self or sanity any longer; all she knew was the pain and the fear, the fear and the pain. Her mouth moved, as if she was talking, but no words, other than moans and groans of pain came out.  
“Kill me…” She wasn’t in control of what she said, but her plea came honestly. Anything to make the pain go away. If she had to die to make the pain go away, she would gladly do so.   
Then, she was put on the ground, sitting against a wall and she got a vague sense of how much time had passed and what had happened.   
Whoever had dragged her to safety was already rushing off again. She was in the king’s hall of the keep and men were working on the door to it. A fair amount of time had passed then, if they had had to retreat to the King’s Hall.   
“The fortress is taken. It is over.” She heard someone declare, she couldn’t remember who the voice belonged to, to the men working to desperately bar the doors.   
“Fuck you.” She told the voice weakly. It didn’t seem to care. The slight sense of self she regained faded away and, once again, she knew only pain and the warm, wet feeling spreading across her throbbing shoulder. Her head rolled to the side as she bled out over the wall and the floor, gritting her teeth against the pain. She could feel some abyss, whether unconsciousness or death she did not know, but she fought against it with every fiber of her being, who she had been, who she was and who she hoped to become.  
She felt like only a few minutes and several years passed all at once. Her thoughts felt sluggish, as if they had to wade through a sea of syrup before she could actually think them.   
Her hands fell from where it had been clutching her side, limp and pale as bone. 

The first thing she felt was her own emotions. Fear. Anger. Stubbornness. Then, her sense of tenacity of self-preservation. Then, she felt that she was lying on something rough and bulky, but not uncomfortable. Her shoulder was throbbing again, but she would feel worried if it didn’t. A pain in her shoulder was something she was growing used to. Her voice felt cracked and dry, but she attempted to use it anyways. All that came out was a weak groan. Faintly, as her hearing cleared and returned to her, bit by bit, she heard moans around her, as well as stressed voices. She forced her eyelids to open, unwilling as they were, but she only saw blurry shapes hurrying back and forth, all in dirty colors.   
“You broke more than a single rib.” A calm voice spoke to her, helping to ease her frayed nerves. “And your wound opened again. It appears that a slight infection prevented it from closing.”   
“Who…” She coughed and blinked again. Her vision cleared at last and she saw Aragorn, covered in dirt and blood, with an exhausted air about him, sitting at her bedside. “Aragorn.” He hushed her gently.  
“Rest easy.” He spoke to her as if she was slow or dim-witted by nature. It annoyed her, but more so did the obvious weakness she felt in her entire body. “You have been through an ordeal.” She was lying down, on a bed made out of flour sacks, and her shoulder and arm was bandaged tightly. She leaned backwards again.  
“We all have.” Her hair was loose and she wore nothing on her upper body, not even her bra. She still wore her pants, but her feet were bare. “You… broken ribs?”   
“Yes, as well as your arm in two different places.” Aragorn gestured towards her left arm, which was lying passively in a rough sling. “I did my best, but a surgery had to be performed. They nearly cut your arm off to save time for the others, but there were some here who were quite vocal about that not happening. Your arm is set now and, with my speeding things along, it should be back to normal in three or four weeks.” Amelia hummed, not feeling up for arguing against it, since she knew that it would lead her nowhere. “You took a bad hit to your hip as well, but as far as I can tell, nothing there is broken.”   
“Yay. So I’ll just have a sore bum from now on.”   
“Good to see that your sense of humor hasn’t gotten hurt as well.” Amelia suddenly leaned forwards.   
“And Boromir?”  
“He is fine.” Aragorn gave her a strange, almost teasing smile. “Only minor scrapes. He was present during your surgery.”   
“What, he wanted to watch them lop off my arm for the fun of it?” Amelia did not like the feeling of anyone seeing her in such a frail state. Aragorn shook his head at her, as if she was being hopeless.   
“Gandalf rode to our aid.” He said instead. “He brought Éomer, the king’s nephew, with him.”  
“Hallelujah.” Amelia sulked a bit. “When will I be able to get out and about again?”   
“Not so soon if I have anything to say about it.” Amelia’s eyes snapped to Boromir, who looked like he had been dragged backwards through the depths of hell itself.   
“If you will excuse me, there are others who require my attention.” Aragorn rushed off before Amelia could protest, leaving Boromir to take his empty chair. Amelia sighed at him and turned her eyes away.   
“We made it through the night.” Her opening line was terrible and she knew it.   
“You almost didn’t.” Boromir sounded quite angry, but Amelia couldn’t imagine why. She chose, against her natural instincts, to avoid an argument right off the bat.   
“Look, I know. Better than anyone. I could feel how I almost died out there. I still can. But I know I shouldn’t have gone into that battle, so please don’t ask me what I was thinking or what I was doing, because I am honestly asking myself the same questions.” She closed her eyes, finally confessing what she truly felt. “I want to go home… But I can’t. Not yet. I am just so… unbelievably… tired.” That was the word for what she felt. “So tired.”  
“Amelia…”  
“I want to be alone.” Her voice grew cold and hard. “Just leave me alone.” There was a heavy silence, but then she heard him stand up and leave. She didn’t feel regret at sending him away. She only let herself feel the throbbing of her shoulder, her desire to return home and the deep, profound exhaustion that had settled within her body. The kind of exhaustion that would never be chased away by sleep or rest.   
Then, Boromir returned and Amelia turned her head towards him as he held out a black lump of something.   
“I told you, leave…” Her demand died in her throat as she stared at her backpack, held out like a peace offering.   
“It was tied to a horse, one that returned after it was lost.” Boromir stood, with her backpack dangling from his hand, but then he sat down and put it beside her bed. “I thought I would bring it to you.” Amelia stared at him in silence and he returned her stare evenly, calmly. Then, with her good hand, she slowly reached out and grasped his shoulder.   
“Thank you.” She whispered, unable to convey how much his simple gesture meant to her. “Thank you so much.” He nodded and stood again, but strangely, after returning her backpack to her, Amelia felt a little sorry to see him go. She settled back into her bed in the lazaret, content with a weak-willed attempt to ease her exhaustion by sleep rather than deep thinking.


	21. Old Friends and Old Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of the resurrection.”   
> -Arthur Schopenhauer

Amelia felt that her latest idea was both her best and her worst one to date. A neatly orchestrated escape attempt, to follow the king of Rohan, Gandalf the White, whom she still needed to talk to in depth, Aragorn, Boromir, Éomer, Legolas and Gimli, who had ridden off towards Isengard early the next morning, in the hope that they would reach Isengard the day after if they rode quickly. In the distance, in the direction of Isengard, one could see a column of rising smoke and Amelia knew that she would not be allowed to go with them if she asked. She played the role of the passive patient and let them ride off, but even with her arm in a sling and her body weak, she still managed to slip on her torn sweater, with some reluctant help from one of the nurses, sling her backpack over her shoulder and steal a horse, since no one were really watching who took which steed. Riding with only one hand available proved an immense challenge, but Amelia steeled herself and managed well enough, even if her steering was faulty and every step the horse took sent a painful jolt through her arm.   
It took her more than a day to catch up to them, for she rode through the night even though she was exhausted. She knew that the seven riders were likely to rest in the night and thus she spurred her horse on, letting it rush after its fellows. It was a low, grey mare, but a fast one and she spotted the distant glow of a fire late in the night. She knew that if she had spotted the fire, Legolas would have spotted her in return, even from such a distance and in the darkness of the night, and she doubted that he would let the others ride on when he knew that she was following them. She slowed the pace of the horse with some difficulty and trotted towards the fire. It was at the edge of dense forest, nestled between two hills in a good position, and she slid off her horse to walk the final distance. Her arm ached and she had to resist the temptation to roll her shoulders. She knew that it would only worsen the dull pain.   
Legolas met her halfway, taking the reins of her horse out of her hand.   
“You should not have come.” Amelia felt her ire rising at his gentle reprimanding.   
“Well, I did. I’m not leaving either.” Legolas smiled warmly at her and Amelia thought that she saw a hint of approval in his eyes.   
“I should have known better than to leave you at the keep.” He began walking towards the fire and Amelia followed, feeling the wind on her skin through the holes in her sweater. “You scarcely let him out of your sight for more than a few hours.” Amelia blinked at him, feeling that his words were untrue.  
“You know that’s not true. I haven’t exactly been able to nag him while I’ve been lying in a bed and resting, you know, like the good girl I am.” Legolas looked like he was on the verge of laughing at her description of herself.   
“One learns to know what to look for after you’ve lived for as long as I have.” Amelia grimaced at him, disliking the direction of the conversation. “I am not surprised to find that you have followed us, though I was surprised to see you riding a horse. Boromir has said that you dislike riding almost as much as you dislike him.”   
“I don’t dislike Boromir!” Amelia snapped at the elf, but then she realized that she had walked right into his trap and she shoved his shoulder with her good hand at the sight of his triumphant smile. “Shut up, elf.” Legolas laughed, a soft, low sound and side by side, they walked down the hill. Aragorn stood up as he heard their footsteps and he immediately hurried to Amelia’s side with a displeased expression.   
“You should not have followed us.”   
“Are you really surprised that I did though?” Amelia sat down heavily in front of the fire, relieved to be able to shrug her backpack off. She had carried it on her good shoulder only. Aragorn sighed and sat down beside her, gently touching her arm. She hissed and made to pull away. He gave her a grim look.   
“You might have undone hours of work by riding a horse. Sit still.” He touched her arm again and she grit her teeth, obeying him for once.   
“If I’d known you’d be such a mother hen about it, perhaps I wouldn’t have followed you.” She muttered grumpily and she heard Gimli chortle.   
“I am unfamiliar with the term.” Théoden was standing, with his hands resting casually on the hilt of his sword. He watched her with guarded, but not unfriendly eyes.   
“It means he’s a worrier, and that he pesters me about it for hours if I so much as break a nail.”   
“You’ve broken a bit more than a nail this time.” Aragorn’s dry remark made Amelia laugh a bit.   
“Alright, alright. I’m fine. Don’t worry, I am. And, I mean, riding a horse hurts, but I can do it. It’s not like I have a choice now, is it?” She glanced at Gandalf’s white shape, sitting on a boulder with his elegant staff leaning against his legs. He sent her a good-natured wink.  
“Forgive me, I do not remember encountering you before.” Éomer stepped forwards. He was in his armor, but without his helmet. Amelia shrugged with her unhurt shoulder.   
“That’s because you haven’t. Name’s Amelia. I tag along with these idiots and get myself into trouble wherever I go.” She threw her head towards Aragorn, Boromir, Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli, who sat sharpening his axe, his helmet on the ground beside him. “Introductions are unnecessary; I already know more about anyone here than I’d like.” Aragorn finally stopped his inspection of her arm and resorted to sitting beside her, keeping an eye on her movements instead.   
“I see.” Éomer looked slightly unnerved by her strange introduction, but he didn’t seem to outright dislike her yet. “Where do you hail from?” He didn’t seem inclined to call her “my lady” and a small bit of relief appeared in Amelia’s chest at that.   
“You wouldn’t have heard of it.” Amelia looked down at the faded word on the sweater. “It’s not exactly… close.”   
“Very well.” Èomer nodded and walked over to sit beside his uncle, who still looked suspicious of Amelia.   
“I talked to Éowyn before I left.” Amelia suddenly said, carefully watching Éomer for his reaction. “She didn’t seem too happy with you riding off again without her.”  
“It has been long a time since she was happy thus.” Éomer answered nonchalantly and Amelia raised her eyebrows at him. Before she could say a word, Gandalf spoke.   
“My friend, you have horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, being born in the body of a maid, has a spirit and courage least the match of yours.” Amelia smirked to herself at Gandalf’s wise words and she looked at Aragorn, who had pulled out his pipe, electing to change the subject.   
“So… Isengard?”   
“What will we find there?” Gandalf asked her kindly, but carefully. Amelia saw no harm in telling him outright.  
“Two of our favorite hobbits hanging out with a bunch of trees. They ought to have pillaged and plundered Saruman’s private larder quite thoroughly by now.” Gandalf snorted softly.   
“Hobbits.” His murmur made Amelia smile a silly smile.   
“Yup. They basically just flooded the whole of Isengard. We’ll arrive to see Saruman locked up in his tower…” She glanced over at Théoden. “With an old friend of yours for company.”   
“Gríma Wormtongue?” Aragorn asked her and she nodded at him.   
“The one and only.” She couldn’t gauge Théoden’s reaction to her revelation in the dim lighting. “I probably wouldn’t have come if I didn’t have the chance to see Merry and Pippin again though.”   
“You would have.” Boromir spoke for the first time since her arrival and she had to agree with his statement.   
“Of course I would.” Suddenly, Boromir frowned at her.  
“Did you steal a horse?” Amelia blinked at him and the hint of a blush rose in her cheeks.  
“Well, you didn’t leave me much choice, did you? Riding off without me and leaving me to stay put-“  
“The rohirrim price their horses and steeds highly.” Éomer interrupted with a deep frown and Amelia cringed a bit.   
“Yeah, but I figured, since you lost more men than horses and I already rode that one,” She nodded at the horse, at the outskirt of their camp. “I figured no one would be left to claim it.”  
“As much as I dislike your methods, Lady Amelia, I find myself inclined to agree with you.” Amelia’s eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets at Théoden’s words. “Too many men were lost in the battle for us to bear those who would now use their things for good any ill will.”   
“Well… good then.” Amelia stared at him, surprised by how he seemed to have forgotten their earlier disagreements, but then, she reasoned, the deaths of his people had to weigh heavier on his conscience than his own bad manners.   
“You could have accompanied the Lady Éowyn back to Edoras.” Boromir butted in again and Amelia gave him the look she had begun to reserve exclusively for him and his thick head. She was about to give him a sharp retort, but that wasn’t the sentence that came out of her mouth.   
“Would you really have come back for me?” She asked sourly, raising a skeptical eyebrow.   
“Well, indeed I would.” Boromir answered quickly and Amelia gave him a strange look, but then the moment was broken when she leaned over and smacked Gimli upside the head for snorting a loud laugh to himself at the sight of them.   
“We all should get some sleep.” Aragorn clapped her gently on her good shoulder. “You need your rest.”  
“Rest, rest and more rest is all I get nowadays.” Amelia grumped, though it had barely been more than two days since the battle. She would never admit it, but riding after the men had tired her more than she had expected and she was glad to be able to rest with her head against her backpack, like she had done so many times before. For a moment, she was almost able to convince herself that it was the Fellowship resting around her, that Gandalf’s battle with the balrog and the hobbits’ abduction had never forced them to part, but then the moment was over and she was left in a strange land surrounded by a king, a ranger, a captain, a wizard, a marshal, a prince and a dwarf. 

As Amelia found out, Éomer was actually a deeply pleasant man. He was polite, but not overly so, and it did not take much for one to reach a sense of familiarity with him. Amelia rode beside him in the procession, with Gandalf leading the way on Shadowfax, his horse, through the dense forest surrounding Isengard, and he was adept at making pleasant conversation to pass the time where Amelia was quite horrid at it. At Éomer’s gentle prodding, she began to reluctantly tell stories from her childhood, but it quickly escalated into telling all about the various shenanigans she and Tobias had gotten themselves into. Sebastian had never been much of a troublemaker. The worst he ever did was when his younger siblings dragged him along into their adventures.   
“So there I am, holding up the ladder while Tobias is placing the bucket in place and Sebastian is standing guard when he suddenly starts yelling that mom is coming, yeah? And I just completely panic and I let go of the ladder and of course it falls. Problem was, Sebastian hadn’t placed the bucket on the door yet and when he falls, the bucket falls with him and we all get this shower of worms and bugs and insects, it was…” She grimaced with an overly exaggerated shudder. “Probably the grossest thing I’ve ever experienced. So, when mom comes in, all she sees is her three kids, covered in mud and insects and gnats and she just makes this helpless sort of ‘why?’-gesture at us.” Éomer laughed slightly at her and Amelia turned her head to see Aragorn and Gimli grinning as well. “After that, I never really liked bugs much. I’m not scared of them, they just creep me out and with good reason. I was traumatized!” Amelia laughed at herself as her horse stepped over a fallen log on the path. She held up her good arm to lift a branch out of her way.   
“My own cousin and I were much like you and your brothers.” Éomer sounded much more casual far quicker than Amelia would have expected. She had gotten used to formalities. “My sister though, she always kept her…”  
“Dignity?” Amelia grinned. “That sounds like her. She’s hardcore.”   
“Since I am unfamiliar with the term I am inclined to agree with you.” Amelia laughed again and adjusted her arm, the one in the sling.   
“We approach Isengard.” Théoden’s call gave Amelia cause to sober as, between the treetrunks, a high wall approached. A massive hole was in it, leading into what remained of the gardens of Isengard. Two small shapes, with curly hair and large feet, sat upon it. They were smoking pipes and laughing at each other. Then, one of them waved energetically and stood up, throwing his arms out as Gandalf stopped his horse in front of them.   
“Welcome, my lords…” Merry shouted happily. “To Isengard!”   
“I shouldn’t be surprised to see you two lounging about.” Amelia called as she made her horse step forwards, to stand beside Gandalf’s.   
“You young rascals!” Gimli shouted and Amelia caught Aragorn looking like he was going to laugh at the dwarf. “You’ve led us on and now we found you… feasting and… and smoking!” He shook his finger at the pipe Pippin waved joyfully at him.   
“We are sitting, on a field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts.” Pippin corrected the dwarf and Amelia shook her head fondly. “The salted pork is particularly good.”   
“Salted pork?” Amelia could see the dwarf’s mouth practically watering at the words.  
“Hobbits.” Gandalf muttered again and Amelia grinned.   
“Goddamn, it’s good to see you two again.” Her voice was warm and Pippin frowned at her arm.   
“What happened to you?”   
“I got blown up.” Pippin raised his eyebrows in interest. “Bit of a long story.”   
“Well, we’re under the orders of Treebeard, who’s taken over management of Isengard.” Merry declared proudly and Amelia sighed wistfully.  
“Wish I could have seen the ents here. The look on Saruman’s face must have been priceless.”   
“Indeed it was!” Merry cried and Gandalf led his horse forwards. Carefully, Merry was placed on the back of Éomer’s horse and Pippin on the back of Amelia’s as they rode into Isengard. A layer of muddy water covered the ground and the horses trudged through it, sloshing and splashing. Broken machinery and something that looked like a dead tree lay about, but Amelia’s eyes were led to the giant shape slowly approaching them.   
The tower of Orthanc, the tower in the middle of Isengard, loomed over them, tall and black, all jagged edges and black balconies and Amelia wondered to herself how anyone had ever thought that the tower was not a place of evil in the first place.   
“Young master Gandalf!” A creaking voice spoke and Amelia turned her head towards the hulking shape walking towards them. It was a mix between a giant and a tree. It was covered in moss, leaves and twigs and its voice sounded like the creaking of treetrunks in a strong wind. Deep, thoughtful eyes looked down at them. “I’m…” He hummed, the sound creaking like branches in the wind, “Glad you’ve come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master, but there is a wizard to be tamed here.” Treebeard looked ancient and Amelia recalled Gandalf saying that he had wandered Middle-Earth for three hundred lifetimes. It that was the truth, then how old was Treebeard, to call the wizard ‘young’? It showed on his weathered face, in his ancient eyes, how long he had actually lived. “Locked in his tower he is.”   
“And there Saruman must remain.” Gandalf sounded quite intent. “Under your guard, Treebeard.”   
“Well, let’s just have his head and be done with it.” Gimli’s exclamation didn’t get him much positive attention.  
“No.” Gandalf didn’t even look at the dwarf. “He has no power anymore. We need him to talk.”   
“Gandalf…” Amelia vaguely recalled the damage that Saruman had wrought, even after he had been defeated at Isengard. “Don’t underestimate him. He’s not powerless, just kind of… beaten.”  
“I know all too well the power of Saruman.” Gandalf didn’t sound as confident as his words did.   
“But…” Amelia sighed. “Ah, there’s no use arguing with you.” Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows at her.   
“Why, you’ve certainly changed, my dear.” He mumbled and looked away again.   
“Said Gandalf the White.” Amelia’s dry comment didn’t get an answer and all they could do was wait uneasily, in silence.   
“You have fought many wars and slain many men, Théoden king, and made peace.” The voice was so friendly that it instantly put Amelia on high alert. A white shape appeared at the top of the tower and though he was far up and out of their reach, Saruman’s voice sounded as clear as if he had been standing beside them. “Can we not take counsel together as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace, you and I?” Amelia snorted in disbelief at his suggestion. The very thought made her balk. The memory of the devastation the dunlendings had wrought on the western Rohan was still fresh in her mind. Even though it felt as if a lifetime had passed, it hadn’t even been a week since she had passed through the westfold, heading towards Helm’s Deep. Even his friendly tone towards Théoden and his calling him a friend seemed preposterous.   
“Dick.” Amelia whispered, and felt a little better.   
“We shall have peace…” Théoden’s voice was grim, despite his words, but Amelia stared at him as if he had sprouted a second head. “We shall have peace when you answer for the burning of the westfold… And the children that lie dead there” He raised his voice and there was no mistake to be made; it quivered in anger, but it was strong. “We shall have peace, when the lives of the soldiers, whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg, are avenged!” He spat the final words out and Amelia’s respect for the man rose ever so slightly. “When you hang from a gibbet, for the sport of your own crows… we shall have peace.” Amelia looked up at Saruman again and wished that she could see the expression on his face in that moment.  
“Gibbets and crows…” Gone was all the warmth in Saruman’s voice. Only an old, embittered voice, a voice of defeat, remained. “What do you want, Gandalf Greyhame? Let me guess; the key of Orthanc, or perhaps the keys of Barad-Dûr itself, along with the crowns of the seven kings and the rods of the five wizards!” Amelia cocked an eyebrow, unamused and unimpressed.   
“Your treachery has already cost many lives.” Gandalf didn’t sound angry, but he did sound firm. “Thousands more are now at risk… but you could save them, Saruman. You are deep in the enemy’s council.”  
“Are you for real?!” Amelia’s voice rang out like a sharp note in a harmonious symphony. “You think this fucker will actually cooperate?” Boromir and Aragorn hushed her, but she pointedly ignored them. “This, this… scumbag, this rotten twat of a turd, this asshole of all assholes… You’d show him…” Her face twisted. “Mercy?”   
“So, you are not a merciful person by nature… Amelia Jones.” Saruman had apparently heard her outburst and turned his attention towards her as her temper ignited and her nostrils flared. He sounded mocking, but curious about her as well.   
“Hell no. Certainly not towards the likes of you.” Amelia didn’t catch the collective warning looks of Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir and Éomer as she narrowed her eyes up at the white wizard. “Mercy? Altruism? Honor? Tablemanners? Them and I don’t mix. I may be a bitch, but at least I’m honest about it.”  
“Honesty is not a virtue in itself.” Amelia flicked a lock of hair out of her face.  
“I didn’t say it was. I’m no paragon of virtue. I’ve never claimed to be and I never will, but I know that, whatever I am, I’m a right lot better than your sorry self.”   
“Since when were you a…” Boromir sounded slightly chiding, but him drawing attention to himself while Amelia’s temper was hot and burning was not a wise move.   
“Since I considered killing you in your sleep after Amon Hen.” Amelia didn’t even glance at him, to gauge his reaction at her revelation.   
“So, the woman in a world of men reveals her true colors. A fruitless gesture.”   
“There’s no revealing. Everyone knew it before I said it. Now it’s just out in the open.” Amelia didn’t let her voice or her face betray any emotion at all. “So fuck you. And thanks for asking.” She looked away with a sour expression, her anger at the wizard flickering like a wild candle.   
“You are a wildcard, Amelia Jones.” Saruman sounded so patronizing that Amelia felt an intense urge to grab Legolas’ bow and attempt to shoot him herself. “You are a mistake. A compromising frivolity Gandalf the Grey allowed himself.” Amelia didn’t answer him, but gave him a glare so dark that Boromir and Éomer looked away from her, despite not being the target of her anger. “You are not important.”   
“God, give me patience, for if you give me strength I will strangle this motherfucker with my bare hands…” Amelia’s mumble did not go unnoticed by the hobbits, who seemed endlessly amused by her foul language and her hot temper, yet unnerved by her interaction with the white wizard as well.   
“Something festers in the heart of Middle-Earth.” Saruman held up a black orb of something and Amelia knew instantly what it was. She glanced over at Pippin to see his eyes fixated on it. “Something you have failed to see and something you will fail to stop.” Amelia bared her teeth slightly at the istari. “But the great eye has seen it. Even now he presses his advantage!” His threat was desperate and nonsensical, made in a foolish bid to make it appear as if he truly had something worth bargaining with. “His attack will come soon.” Gandalf led his horse further forwards, as if he wanted to show his reluctant interest. “You are all going to die.”   
“Then I’ll see you in hell.” Amelia didn’t let Saruman get to her and she gave Merry a reassuring look.   
“But you know this, don’t you, Gandalf? You cannot think this ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor.” Amelia rolled her eyes at his tiresome babbling. “This exile, crept from the shadows, will never be crowned king.”   
“I think it’s safe to say I’m the superior fortune teller here.” Amelia mumbled the words quietly to herself, since she was unable to keep the words within her.   
“Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those closest to him. Those he professes to love. Tell me, what words of comfort did you give to the Halfling before you sent him to his doom? The path that you have set him on can only lead to death.”  
“I’ve heard enough.” Gimli’s voice was unexpected, but not unwelcome to Amelia. “Shoot him. Stick an arrow in his gob.”   
“No.” Amelia narrowed her eyes at Gandalf at his forbidding of Saruman’s death. “Come down, Saruman… and your life will be spared.”   
“Save your pity and your mercy! I have no use for it!” Saruman’s snapping was most unbecoming of him.   
“Well, you heard him. Let’s call it a day and leave him in the loving care of the ents. Maybe they can find some amusement in this prick.” Amelia hid a yawn behind the back of her hand.   
“Saruman…” Gandalf sounded sorrowful, something that only served to get Amelia even more fired up than she already was. ”Your staff is broken.” With an abrupt bang, Saruman’s staff glowed and shattered in his hand. A dark shape appeared behind Saruman, hunched over and barely looking human. Amelia’s upper lip curled in disgust.   
“Gríma…” Théoden called to the newcomer. “You need not follow him. You were not always as you are now. You were once a man of Rohan. Come down.”   
“A man of Rohan?” Saruman repeated lowly as she figure bowed and made to move back into the tower and down to his former king. “What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink and reek and their brats roll on the floor with the dogs?” Théoden looked outraged at the insult, but unlike Amelia, he was a man capable of controlling his rage. “The victory at Helm’s Deep does not belong to you, Théoden Horsemaster. You are a lesser son of greater sires.” Unbelievably, it looked as if Saruman’s words struck a nerve and Amelia found it necessary to step in.   
“I don’t believe this. The guy might be a… Actually, I don’t think I’m going to say that word aloud, but anyways…” Amelia spat the words out without minding them or considering their effect. “He is ten times the man you are, though that’s not saying much. You are vile. You make me sick. And you’re not going to lose. You already have.” A dark, triumphant grin bloomed on Amelia’s pale face. “You say we’re all going to die. Well, guess what? Wrong guess. You are going to die. There’s no escaping it. No way out. Only death.” She took a steadying breath.   
“Gríma…” Théoden took the word again, though he looked slightly unease at Amelia’s dark prophecy. “Come down. Be free of him.”   
“Free?” Saruman’s exclamation made Amelia’s blood boil. “He will never be free!” He turned, as if Gríma had spoken, and Amelia’s eyes suddenly widened.   
“Shoot him! Shoot him now!” She hissed as Saruman slapped Gríma and he fell to the ground. She wasn’t even sure whether she meant Saruman or Gríma, but she was surprised when Legolas didn’t hesitate or question her. Before Gandalf could so much as protest, a perfectly shot arrow pierced Saruman’s throat and a horrible gurgling sound came from him. Amelia’s face twisted in something between disgust and shock as the white wizard flailed and fell backwards, out over the edge of the tower. He fell and Amelia looked away as he was skewered like a fish on a large spike sticking out of the water. Merry cringed and Gandalf whirled towards her. He looked far more angry than Amelia had ever seen him.   
“Hey. He was going to die like that anyways.” Amelia forced herself to look at the body of Saruman, where blood was staining his white robes. “He had nothing more to say.” Then, she sighed and let go of her anger, feeling it drain away like water down a drain. She looked up to where Gríma had gotten to his feet again. He was staring down at her in shock. “You owe me your life. I’ve given you a second chance, despite my better judgment. Don’t waste it.” The figure of Gríma slunk into the tower, presumably to hurry down to Théoden, who looked quite shocked at what had occurred.   
“And who are you to dole out life and death?” He asked her harshly and Amelia felt a bitter feeling rear its head in her.   
“No one. And I’ve never killed anyone. I didn’t fire that shot.” She felt that handing the blame to Legolas would be too dirty and continued. “Besides, and let me reveal a tad bit of trivia to you here, ‘cause it doesn’t matter in the long run anymore… Saruman was always going to die here. No way around it. He didn’t have anything else to say, nothing that could be of use anyway. However…” Amelia glanced at the door into the tower. “Gríma was supposed to die here as well. I didn’t kill anyone here. I didn’t sentence anyone to die. I sentenced someone to live, even though I don’t think he deserved it.” Amelia scoffed at herself. “I guess I really don’t give a damn about the consequences of anything anymore. That’s probably a bad sign.” Gandalf sighed and turned away without saying another word to her. Amelia locked eyes with Boromir and she did most definitely not like the look on his face. Amelia broke eye contact and rubbed her face as exhaustion settled in her. “What was I thinking?”


	22. Golden Gleam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Failure is a bruise, not a tattoo.”  
> -Jon Sinclair

Even though Théoden had urged Gríma to rejoin him in Rohan, he did not seem to trust Gríma at all. The king’s former advisor stood before them, water up to his ankles, and Amelia could truly see what a wretch he had been reduced to. He was as pale as a maggot, with his upper lip covered in snot, and his black hair hung like a greasy curtain around his white face. His eyes were watery and his eyebrows were so thin that they might as well have been nonexistent. Amelia looked away and let Théoden decide his fate, disinterested in the proceedings.   
“We should return to Edoras.” Gandalf urged the king lowly. Théoden glanced at him, but then turned back towards Gríma.   
“My people would not welcome you back.” He stated calmly, bluntly, and Gríma bowed his head. His hair fell forwards to cover his face. “You would find no pity there.”  
“Are you just going to make him stay here?” Merry asked incredulously. “With the ents?”   
“He’d be killed before a day had passed.” Aragorn butted in calmly. “The ents are gentle, patient creatures, but the burning of their forest have shortened their temper.”   
“I would not have him back if I could avoid it.” Éomer sounded just as disgusted with Gríma as Amelia felt. “He does not deserve the mercy of his life.”  
“Seriously? Sure, undo all my hard work and kill him off, why don’t you?” Amelia snarled at the heir to the riddermark.   
“Forgive me…” Boromir frowned. “What, exactly, did this… man… do to incur such wrath?” Amelia stared at him as she realized that it was unlikely that Boromir had ever seen Gríma before.   
“Quick version? He was Théoden’s advisor, but turned on him by becoming a spy for Saruman and basically mind-controlled the king.” It seemed a bit much for Boromir to wrap his head around. His brows knitted together, but then he nodded curtly. “Plus, I’m cranky as fuck after riding that horse to and fro. Ever tried riding a horse with broken bones in your body? It hurts. A lot.” Amelia shrugged. “Anyways, Aragorn and company comes busting in to save the day and he crawls back to Saruman in Isengard. And here we are.”  
“I see. I know better than to ask you how you know this.”  
“There’s a good boy. Now though…” She looked back down at Gríma’s shivering frame. “What to do, what to do…”   
“I do not feel it would be right for me to pass his sentence. After all…” Théoden turned towards Amelia. “It is not by my doing that we are in this precarious situation at all.” Amelia gaped at him.  
“So you hand this to me and go on your merry way, unconcerned with the consequences. Brilliant!” Her sarcasm dripped from her words. She glared at Gríma and groaned. “Look, I don’t even care. I shouldn’t have saved his life, alright? That was a mistake. I won’t kill him though. You said it yourself; he has the potential to become something better again. I mean, he’s pretty much hit rock-bottom here, so it can only go upwards from here on out, right?” She mulled it over for a bit. “Back home, we have a saying. ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’. Now I’m not sure which category this sorry excuse of a man falls into, but, well… Want my opinion? Have him work for you, directly, so you can keep an eye on whatever he’s doing. Not as an advisor or anything of status. Strip him of all rank and title and whatever. Have him work his way up from the bottom again, and do keep an eye on him.” Éomer didn’t seem pleased with the verdict, but Théoden didn’t seem to think that it was too bad of a solution. “Oh, and you might want to keep him away from Éowyn. Just a thought.”   
“Pippin!” Aragorn exclaimed as Pippin suddenly jumped down from the horse he had been sitting on and sloshed through the water. Amelia frowned as he approached a round glow in the water and picked it up. It was the palantír, the seeing stone that Saruman had flaunted in front of them. Pippin stared into its murky depths, seemingly entranced by the swirling within.   
“I’ll have that, my dear boy.” Gandalf hurried his horse over to the hobbit and hastily took the palantír from him, wrapping it within his robes and casting a dark glance at Pippin. The hobbit looked down, shamefully, and Amelia sighed.   
“Could we please get underway? It’s been a trying few days.” Amelia scowled at her broken arm, looked briefly at Saruman’s body dripping with blood, before she turned her horse around and followed the procession of riders out of Isengard.

Amelia didn’t understand the tradition of ‘hailing the victorious dead’ as well as she’d like. The king hailed them and the men in Meduseld, a large gathering of guards, soldiers and a few women and wives of distinguished heroes, drank to their honor after repeating his words. She grimaced at the taste of bad alcohol, but knew better than to interrupt the respectful silence of mourning in the hall by complaining about her beverage.   
However, mourning turned to merriment, and caskets and barrels of ale and wine were brought in from the extensive cellars, to the immense joy of Gimli. Instead of an evening of eulogies and mourning, it became a night of revelry and a party to remember. Amelia preferred to sit quietly at a table, humbly bringing anyone who dared challenge her to a game of cards or dices to a crushing defeat.   
“Huh. Sometimes it does pay off to be a nerd at math.” Her mumbling was meant for her ears alone, but a man dumped down next to her and raised his brown eyebrows at her.   
“Enjoying yourself?” Boromir didn’t seem to think that she was.   
“Not really. This is too easy.” Amelia weighed the pouch of gold in her hand. It was her winnings from her gambling. She looked up at Boromir. “You want to talk to me. Pretty badly actually.”   
“Does your foresight extend to mindreading as well?” Boromir’s joke didn’t make either of them smile.   
“No, I just know you that well by now. So, out with it. You don’t look too happy.” Boromir looked away and Amelia narrowed her eyes. They both had to speak pretty loudly to be able to hear each other.   
“What you said at the tower of Isengard… did not sit well with me.” He sipped from his tankard. Amelia sighed and folded her hands.   
“Look, I know what you’re gonna say; ‘No, of course you’re not a bitch’ and ‘You shouldn’t have made Legolas kill Saruman’ and all that rot.”  
“Would you have killed me, had you had the chance?” Boromir’s question caught Amelia off-guard and she stared at him.  
“Awhat?”  
“I seem to recall you saying…”  
“Oh, right!” Amelia slapped her forehead and cringed. “That. It wasn’t serious like that, it was more like a… a stray thought, an impossible ‘what if’, you know? One of those weird thoughts where you think to yourself ‘wait, the fuck am I thinking?’ and then forget about it.”   
“Would you have done it?” Amelia gave Boromir an incredulous look.  
“No!” Her sharp exclamation came close to a shout. “Are you for real? I mean…” Amelia took a deep breath. “I toyed with the idea, and perhaps I would have tried, if everything was different, but… No. Not in a thousand years. You… It’d be a waste.” Amelia couldn’t believe herself as she felt blood rushing to her cheeks and she looked away from Boromir’s serious face. She chose to blame it on the alcohol and the heat of many bodies around her.   
“That is not everything I wish to discuss.”   
“Oh, dear lord…” Amelia hid her face in her hands. “Alright. Shoot.”   
“Why did you save Wormtongue’s life?”   
“Oh, shit, I… I don’t know, alright? It seems I’m making a habit of saving lives without thinking about it.” She grimaced. “That came out wrong. It seems I’m making a habit of messing up without even thinking about it.” Boromir hummed slightly and eyed the pouch of gold in her hand.   
“What you did was…”  
“Don’t.” Amelia snapped at him without thinking about it. “Don’t twist it into some… noble, heroic thing on my part. I’m not a hero. I’m a little girl with absolutely no idea what she’s doing.” She threw her head back and drained the ale in her tankard in one go and Boromir raised his own in return. “I’m no one.”  
“You are someone.” Boromir’s disagreeing with her made her irritated. “Perhaps you are no hero, Amelia…” He slammed his empty tankard down beside hers. “But you’re a gambler. And a gambler takes risks. Some of them yield a positive profit…” He nodded towards her pouch of winnings. “Others not so much.” Amelia felt a small smile tug at her mouth.  
“A gambler, huh?” She fastened the pouch to her belt, since her backpack had been left in the room she had been graciously given in Edoras, as a guest of the king himself. “I can live with that.” She smiled softly at Boromir, a smile she normally only reserved for her brothers and her parents. “Thanks.”   
“For what?”  
“For not seeing me as more than me. There’s just me, myself and I, and somehow, you…” She hesitated a bit and wondered whether she went too far. “You make that seem like enough. So thanks.” She stood up and looked around the busy hall, purposely avoiding Boromir’s grey eyes fixed on her. “Now, where’s that ruddy dwarf? I bet he’s where the good booze is.”   
Finding Gimli did not take her long. He was sitting at a mighty pile of empty tankards, attempting to outdrink Legolas, who looked as serene as ever, still standing up and emptying tankards as if they were filled with water. Amelia arrived right as Legolas stared at his fingers in wonder.  
“I feel something.” He sounded breathless and Amelia sniggered behind her good hand. “A slight tingling in my fingers.” He looked up at Éomer, who had been watching them with amusement. The man raised his eyebrows at the elf. “I think it’s affecting me.” Amelia snorted with laughter and clapped Legolas’ shoulder. Gimli laughed loudly and waved a finger at the elven prince.  
“What did I tell ya’? He can’t hold his liquor…” The dwarf went cross-eyed and fell backwards with a grunt. Legolas blinked at him and looked up at Éomer.  
“Game over.”  
“Not quite.” Amelia placed her good hand on her hip. “I’m willing to bet that I can outlast anyone here, except you Legolas, ‘cause you’re an elf, so that’s cheating, in a drinking game.”  
“A bold claim.” Éomer smiled at her.   
“One I won’t retract. Back home, our stuff is much stronger. This is as close to water as you can get. I’m used to drinking about three or four beers at a good party back home, though back in my university days I could get all the way to seven, and one of our beers is about, oh, what… four tankards of this? Five? So, all in all, let’s say I drink four beers on a good evening. That’s about sixteen of these at least.” Amelia winked playfully. “That’s good evening. Imagine what I could do on a great one.” Éomer grinned a friendly grin at her.   
“And would you say tonight is a great evening?” Amelia pursed her lips thoughtfully.  
“My lord Éomer…” She cocked her head. “Tonight is a magnificent night. Think you’re up for a bit of a game yourself?” Éomer smiled, despite his answer.  
“I hardly think it would be…”  
“Oh, come on!” She shoved him lightly with a smile. “If you think you’re not up for it, just say so.” Éomer raised his eyebrows and Amelia wondered to herself whether she had gotten in over her head, but dismissed the notion.   
Two minutes later, the prince and the woman was seated on opposing sides of a bench, with an impressive crowd of onlookers, including Aragorn, Legolas and Éowyn, who kept glancing over at Aragorn every few seconds.   
“Here’s the rules…” Gamling stood at the end of the table, looking rather intoxicated himself, but still managing to not sway on his feet too much. “No cheating. No hitting. No breaks.”  
“No mercy.” Amelia added cheerfully and a few of the onlookers hooted.   
“And no regrets.” Gamling finished with a grand gesture. Éomer and Amelia simultaneously reached out for one of the many tankards in front of them and drank without stopping. Amelia grimaced at the bad taste, but didn’t stop as she reached out for another.   
She had to admit, Éomer had an impressive tolerance. After about nine tankards, she felt slightly dizzy and the pleasant buzz of alcohol hummed cheerfully in her ears. She downed another and Éowyn stared at her.   
“How can you stand that?” She exclaimed and Amelia grinned up at her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her good hand.   
“By not thinking about the bitch of a hangover I’m going to have tomorrow. Bottoms up!” The men cheered as she kept on drinking, but Éomer was a worthy opponent. On her eleventh, she burped loudly and blew a raspberry. She leaned back slightly in her seat and noticed that Éomer looked rather close to defeat as well.   
“Oh, you are going down…” She slurred and downed another. “God, I think I’m approaching the legal alcohol limit here…”   
“You actually have limits on that?” Legolas sounded rather interested.   
“Mhm. Not here though. And if you don’t think I’m going to take advantage of that…” Her words were slightly slurred and she struggled to keep her eyes open. Stubbornness rose and she reached out for another tankard, giving the growing pile on her side of the table a weary look. “You know, I think- I think-“ She burped again. “That there’s a perfectly logical expla-“ She broke off her sentence with a confused expression, mouthing the word before she continued. “Explanation as to why I can drink like this.”  
“Do tell.” Legolas gave her an indulgent smile and she downed another before continuing, shuffling slightly in her seat.   
“Like, the… the stuff is much stronger where I’m from, but, like, this is just…” She peered deeply into her tankard, like some alcohol was still hiding at the bottom of it. “This is just funny water, man.”  
“Funny water?” Éowyn repeated, giving Amelia an incredulous look, and Amelia laughed, like Éowyn had just told the greatest joke she had ever heard.  
“Man, I need to pee. You should add ‘pottybreaks are allowed’ to that list of rules…” Éomer put his head in his hands and Amelia paused. The crowd fell silent as they looked at their prince. His face was red.   
“To be bested for the first time, and by a woman foreign to our lands…” He leaned back and Amelia saw with satisfaction that he was slightly cross-eyed. “I yield.” There was a deafening silence and Amelia saw several betters unhappily handing coin over to those few who had bet on the stranger defeating the prince. Then, a roar rose and clapping came as men laughed and cheered. Amelia groaned and hit her chest with a fist. She burped loudly and raised her tankard.   
“Yay. I need to pee.” 

Amelia woke to the sound of a yell.  
She was not lying in her room, but rather on a bed that had been brought into the hall at her convenience, since she had voiced doubts that she would actually be able to walk back to her room without falling over and hitting her head. The rohirrim had been kind enough to carry her bed to her and not the other way around.   
When she woke, she felt like she had been blown up by the Uruk-Hai all over again, and she blinked wearily, trying to place the sound of wild shouting.   
“Fool of a took!” Gandalf exclaimed and Amelia groaned loudly. She felt nauseous and her headache was worse than anything she could remember having.   
“Shut. Up!” She pulled her covers over her head, but then she jerked up with wide eyes, her cover still over her. “Pippin!” Hastily, she scrambled out of her bed, with her loose hair reminiscent of the wild hairstyles she had had in her late teenage years. Gandalf, Merry, Pippin, Aragorn and Legolas were gathered around Pippin, who looked so pale and unmoving that Amelia feared that he was dead for a moment. Gandalf placed his hand on his head and he gasped, his eyes flittering around the room. Amelia rushed towards him and crouched down beside Gandalf, the sudden movement sending her head spinning.   
“Gandalf… forgive me…” Pippin choked the words out and his eyes began closing again. Amelia resorted to desperate means and slapped him with her good hand. His eyes jerked open again.  
“Don’t you dare!” She hissed at him.   
“Look at me. What did you see?” Gandalf’s question was calm and soothing in tone, but the words themselves made it seem as if he didn’t have much concern for the hobbit at all. Boromir suddenly came barging in through the door, in a mix of armor and a nightshirt, and Amelia felt her hands shaking.   
“A tree. A white tree… in a courtyard of stone.” Pippin whispered as he recounted the horrors he had seen. Amelia cast a foul look towards the palantír on the floor. A faint, orange glow shone ominously from within it. Apparently, Pippin had attempted to take it from Gandalf. Amelia remembered all too well how he had accidentally contacted Sauron himself. “It was dead. The city was burning.”   
“Shh.” Amelia hushed him and Gandalf frowned at her. “It’s over. I can tell them everything they need to know. You don’t have to say anymore.” Amelia ran her fingers through her hair and Pippin looked up at her. There were tears in his eyes.  
“I saw him.” His choked words made Amelia want to march on Mordor itself, alone, for causing him such despair. “I could hear his voice in my head.”  
“I know. Don’t worry. I know you didn’t… tell him anything.” Amelia stood up and paced in the room for a moment. “I need air.” She rushed out of the room, feeling like she was going to start throwing vases and kicking the walls if she stood still too long. She staggered and her headache came rushing back. She reached out for something to steady herself at, but a strong arm reached out to help her stand on her own two feet again instead.   
“Be calm.” It was Aragorn. They were alone, in a dark hallway, with the walls covered in large, woven tapestries, and Amelia was grateful that no one else had followed her to see her shaking. “Nothing came of it.”   
“I should have stopped it!” Amelia whirled towards him, tearing at her hair, the pain of it amplified by her thunderous headache. “What, who… what kind of person am I, Aragorn? A bitch who chooses to save some worthless wretch of a man, but when her friend is in danger of a fucking visit from the dark lord, she just gets drunk and forgets all about it?!” Her breathing was fast and Aragorn’s grip on her good shoulder tightened. “This shouldn’t have happened, I could have… I could have stopped it! I could have warned Gandalf, I could have stayed awake, I could have done something, for God’s sake! This wasn’t fair, this…” She refused to let tears come. She was not that weak yet. She still had her pride. “This is my fault. This is my… my failure. I could have told Gandalf everything he needed to know. Damn it!”  
“Stop.” Aragorn’s calm voice grated on her patience and her nerves. “I do not know whether you could have prevented what happened in there, but neither do you. What happened, happened. It can’t be changed now.”  
“What’s done is done, huh?” Amelia shook her head slightly and looked away. “I tell myself that far too much by now.” She took a shaking breath, pressing a sweaty hand to her forehead. “Shit. I might not have an ounce of honor in me, but I still could’ve- shit.”   
“What did he see?” Aragorn’s inquiry was hesitant and careful and Amelia could tell he feared that he was being insensitive. A watery smile briefly crossed her face, but it disappeared quickly again.   
“He looked Sauron in the eye and lived to tell the tale.” She sighed. “Gondor. He saw Gondor. Sauron knows he can’t nail Rohan now, so… Minas Tirith is next. We should… I think Boromir’ll want to go there. Pippin and Gandalf will be off tomorrow. I’ll…” she inhaled deeply. “I’ll go with them.” Steely resolve took the place of her frail composure and she clenched her jaw. “I swear by all things good and holy on this earth, I will tear Sauron apart for what he did to Pippin.”  
“Then he won’t know what hit him.” Aragorn’s discrete compliment made her scoff. It certainly wasn’t her who was going to charge the armies of Mordor on her own, leading an army in an assault on the Black Gate of Mordor.   
“Thanks, but… You can just tell Gandalf what I told you. I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep. I need to hunt down some painkillers. I still have a hell of a hangover to nurse.” Amelia rubbed her temple and turned away from Aragorn. She hurried away from him, but nearly collided with Boromir when she rounded a corner.   
“Is something wrong?” He sounded concerned, but Amelua brushed him off with a wave of her hand, not feeling up for any more conversations. She straightened her back and held her head a bit higher.   
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m completely fine.”


	23. To the East

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Life takes us to unexpected places sometimes. The future is never set in stone, remember that.”  
> -Erin Morgenstern

“Here. Something for the road.” Amelia pretended not to notice Merry handing Pippin a pack of pipeweed from South Farting and busied herself with mounting her own horse. Her legs ached from the memory of how sore her thighs had been after dismounting her horse at last after returning from Isengard. Boromir had already mounted his own horse, a chestnut stallion with much impatience, and Amelia had some difficulty mounting her own, a black and white stallion, fast, but with a lesser temper than Boromir’s steed. Finally, she managed to pull herself up with a grunt and her horse flicked its ears impatiently.  
“This is going to be terrible. Three days on a bloody horse. I’m not even a good rider.” She didn’t say the words to anyone in particular, but Boromir shook his head at her, when he thought that her attention was not on him.  
“Last of the Longbottom leaf?” Pippin sounded awestruck, but sad as well.  
“I know you’ve run out.” Merry tried to look like it didn’t hurt him to have to say goodbye to his best friend. “You smoke too much, Pip.”  
“But… we’ll see each other soon.” Pippin sounded so young in that moment. “Won’t we?”  
“I don’t know.” Merry looked on the verge of tears as he stepped backwards and Gandalf mounted his white horse, Shadowfax. Amelia tightened her grip on her horse. She had been told that, since she wasn’t close to an expert in riding, her horse would follow the others as well as it could without dropping dead from exhaustion, unless she told it specifically otherwise. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen.”  
“Merry!” Pippin yelled as Gandalf spurred Shadowfax on and it galloped out the stable, with Boromir and Amelia close behind. They kicked up straws and dust as they sprinted through Edoras and out its gate and Amelia saw that several townsfolk had to jump aside to avoid being trampled by the three horses. On a whim, Amelia turned in her saddle to take one last look at Edoras, with Meduseld perched proudly on the top like a crown, since it occurred to her that it would probably be the last time that she ever saw the capital of Rohan.  
Boromir had been kind enough to inform Gandalf that the quickest way to reach Minas Tirith was by following Ered Nimrais, the white mountains separating Rohan from Gondor, and it seemed like Gandalf would take his word for it, riding parallel with the tall peaks to the south.  
“Damn…” Amelia whispered to herself for no reason that she could think of.

The ride was long and hard, with as little pausing as possible. In the time it took them to enter Gondor itself, they only rested once and it was brief and hurried. Amelia only managed to catch a few hours of uneasy sleep before they were on their way again. Amelia nodded off several times, but her horse’s galloping kept her from succumbing fully to sleep.  Her bad sleeping was starting to wear on her. She had dark circles under her eyes and mussed up hair.  
Then, when they neared the Pelennor Fields, a minor thing occurred to Amelia and she called out to Boromir, who immediately steered his steed towards her.  
“What is it?” He sped up his horse again as Gandalf didn’t slow his pace to accommodate them and Amelia’s horse obediently followed suit.  
“I forgot to tell you something.” Amelia had to speak loudly to make herself heard. “You probably ought to know… Faramir encounters the ring.” Boromir paled slightly and his face became deeply concerned. He seemed to recall the way the ring had taken control of him. “Don’t worry. Nothing happens. He’s fine. Just thought you should know.” Amelia yawned again and looked away from her friend. “Damn, I miss coffee.”  
“We have just passed into the realm of Gondor!” Gandalf called from up ahead and Boromir sped up, obviously excited at the prospect of finally returning to the lands that he spoke of so reverently.  
Amelia noticed that, while they weren’t so significant that she would have noticed them without Gandalf’s announcement, some changes had come to the landscape, to show that she was no longer in the realm of the rohirrim. The grass was no longer a golden sea, but patches of yellow and green, with rare clusters of eranthis and snowdrops. Trees were few and far between. Occasionally, they would cross a small brook.  
“Come along!” Gandalf called to her as he and Boromir waited for her atop a hill. Amelia narrowed her eyes slightly at Boromir’s expression, as if he was excited about something, and she steered her horse in their direction with some difficulty.  
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, my arse is number than a…” Amelia lost her tongue as her horse reached the top of the hill and she could look upon the Pelennor Fields and the white city of Minas Tirith, towering proudly like a fallen cloud against the dark mountains behind it. “Well, fuck me sideways with a screwdriver…” Amelia sounded breathless, but never in her life had she seen a sight like the White City. The movies had done a pathetic job of doing it justice. It was enormous, built to house up to thousands of people within it, with walls thrice as thick as what Amelia would have deemed necessary and even in the dim sunlight peeking out from behind the clouds, it gleamed like a lonely diamond against its bland surroundings. Flags and pennants were raised high, to dance in the wind. For a city fallen to decay, it had a lively soul all its own. She fumbled for words to do it justice. “It’s kind of shaped like a wedding cake, isn’t it?” Pippin got a wistful expression on his face at the mention of food and Boromir laughed softly at her impulsive jest. He seemed oddly pleased with her reaction.  
Gandalf kicked Shadowfax gently and the white horse shot forwards once again. Boromir and Amelia’s horses had nowhere near such an endurance, but they were hasty and managed to keep up as they crossed the gigantic, barren fields in front of the White City. Amelia tried to imagine an army of orcs covering it, but found that doing so made her uncomfortable and she turned her mind to other matters. Then, she noticed Boromir frowning at something in the White City and she followed his eyes. Her blood ran cold.  
Black banners hung from every window, every precipice and every flag. The pennants that she had admired didn’t bear the white tree, but instead, they bore black, the color of mourning.  
“I messed up.” Her immediate conclusion was only realized in a whisper, one that neither Gandalf, Pippin or Boromir heard. Boromir, however, looked deeply concerned.  
“The White City does not mourn idly.” He said as they slowed to enter the city, whose gates had swung open in silence and without checking their identities, something that instantly put Amelia on high alert. “Amelia?”  
“Well, fucking hell, I haven’t got the foggiest what this is all about…” She trailed off as they rode slowly through the streets of the first ring, all four of them feeling the heavy, tangible grief in the silent air. Then, as if they were ghosts seeing four ghosts riding by, silent people, most clad in black, emerged from the houses on both sides of the white cobblestone road, staring at them as if they were a distant mirage. Amelia caught a few whispers, but nothing concrete that could tell them why they were riding silently through a steadily increasing crowd of onlookers in absolute silence. A heavy chant floated above them, streaming slowly from the towers and the windows of the darkened houses.  
_From the Gate of the Kings the Great Wind rides, and past the roaring falls,_  
 _And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls._  
 _‘What news from hence, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today?_  
 _What news of Boromir the bold? For he is long away.’_  
 _‘Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought,_  
 _His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought._  
 _His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest,_  
 _And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast._  
 _‘O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze,_  
 _To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days._  
Amelia leaned over towards Boromir, after she had urged her horse up beside his. “Boromir, I… I don’t think they’re mourning your father or your brother.”  
“Then who would you propose?” He sounded slightly bitter, but Amelia knew that it was his nerves breaking through.  
“I think… I think they’re mourning you.” Boromir stared at her and Amelia slowly began to view the situation from every angle, examine every outcome coolly and logically, without taking a personal stance.  
“That makes little sense.” Amelia wasn’t surprised that he was unable to make out the precise wording of the lament.  
“No, it… it actually makes a lot of sense.” Amelia’s face darkened immeasurably. “They heard the Horn of Gondor, probably. That’s enough for them to assume you’re in danger, possibly in a life-threatening situation…” They passed the door leading onto the third level. “But how could they be sure… Faramir never saw your body, unless something seriously freaky went down…” Then, her grip on the reins tightened until her knuckles went white. “Oh no… No, that would just be… Oh, drat it all.”  
“What is it?”  
“I won’t tell you until I know for sure, but… Oh, man… pray that I’m wrong. I don’t care whether you’re religious. Pray with everything you’ve got that I’m wrong.” Gandalf mumbled something to Shadowfax and the horse began trotting quickly. Amelia groaned slightly at the jolting gait as her own horse followed, attempting to look like worry didn’t gnaw at her from the inside.  
Then, finally, after what seemed like an eternity of riding through a city mourning a dead man who had just come home again, they emerged unto the large platform where a tall, white tree stood, bent and wizened with age. It had no leaves or flowers. Its roots stretched into an artificial pond at its base and to Amelia, it looked at close to desperate as a tree could get. Four guards with winged helmets and adorned spears stood around it, staring stiffly into the air, as if they expected a vicious gardener to appear at any moment to crop their white tree.  
Amelia nearly fell when she slid off her horse, but Boromir caught her before she could fall face-down onto the white stone of the platform, seemingly having anticipated her legs giving out under her. She murmured a hasty word of thanks to him and he let her go quickly. They hurried after Gandalf and Pippin, who were already approaching the large palace at the end of the platform. Then, the wizard stopped and leaned on his staff, glancing at Amelia. It occurred to her that he was looking for instructions.  
“Uh…” She scratched her neck, uncomfortable under the gaze of her friends. ”See, if my hunch is right, I don’t really know how far gone he is at this point… He could be better, could be worse, but my gut tells me that being optimistic at this point equals being naïve, so… It’s probably best if you go first, Boromir, you know… make it appear as if you’re the leader. It’s what he’ll expect, so let’s accommodate daddy dearest for now, yes? Then Gandalf and then Pippin and I. And for God’s sake, do not, I repeat, do not mention Frodo or the Ring or Aragorn or the Fellowship or…” Amelia shifted uneasily on her feet. “Look, I’m not exactly sure what he’s like, so… All we can do is wing it and hope for the best.” She gestured towards the doors and looked at Boromir. “After you, Lord Important McFancypants.” She gave him an uneasy smile that didn’t reach her eyes, one that he didn’t return. Reluctantly, Boromir stepped forwards and straightened his back. He strode towards the door and he looked, to all who didn’t know him well, like he truly was a triumphant leader returning to his father after a long and tiring journey to the north. Then, immediately in front of the doors, he hesitated, but then they swung inwards and it was too late to turn back.  
Amelia had expected a man in either extreme. She had betted on him either being the sour old man with a spitting speech at the ready or a proud lord attempting to hold together a city white also mourning his favorite son and battling the influence of the palantír that she knew he had in his possession. She had betted on being able to classify him as either “good” or “bad” and move on with her day. She had not betted on him being somewhere in between, looking like an elderly, snappish man and a tall leader at the same time. His eyes were sunken and his face was heavy with sorrow, but he held himself like an unbroken lord. Amelia could see how he might inspire both sympathy and respect to those who only saw him from afar or in public events. Amelia only felt determination and a low, uncomfortable feeling of suspicion and unease when she looked at him.  
Denethor stood up as they entered. The furs he bore around his shoulders and his cape rustled at the movement.        
“My son,” He stepped down from the dais and reached out for Boromir. Amelia’s fingers twitched, but she wasn’t certain why. “My son.” It sounded like a fervent prayer, a whispered wish in the empty hall.  
“Father.” Amelia had never seen Boromir smile like that before. It was bright, it was welcoming and it was far too alien for his features. On any other man, it would have been a radiant grin of victory. On him, knowing him well, to her, it looked forced and false, nothing more than a pretty front. She was tempted to smack it off his face, but she knew better than that, even though she had never mastered her impulses fully.  
They clasped each other’s hands, but they did not embrace. They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, clapped each other on the shoulders and held the other like that for a bit, but then they let each other go.    
“I had not thought to see you again in this world.” Denethor sounded like the very thought pained him. He kept a hand on his sons shoulder and turned, so that they walked beside each other. Amelia felt like she was intruding on something private and held her tongue, in silence.  
“Indeed. It seems my city has seen fit to assume, given my absence. Still, it was a fair conclusion.” Denethor nodded thoughtfully to himself, with his eyes bright in joy still. It was as if he didn’t even notice the other three people in the room.  
“And how fared you on your quest, my boy?” Amelia laughed at the term. Boromir was tall, broad and muscular, in his early forties. For anyone to call him a boy seemed ludicrous to her. “I trust you saw all was well and done?” There was an awkward silence and Amelia decided to butt in before Boromir could answer. That he hesitated only eased her way into the conversation.  
“Forgive me, my lord…” He turned towards her, evidently surprised that she dared open her mouth. “But we ran into a fair amount of trouble. You heard that horn of his, yeah? Well, that was the… trouble. The Ring, well… it’s kind of out of our hands now, and for good reason!” Denethor let go of Boromir’s shoulder and took a slow step towards her, scrutinizing her with his eyes. His sudden cold only inspired defiance. “What I’m trying to say is, and I’m sorry to butt into your little man-moment here, but it really wasn’t anyone’s fault here. And don’t blame anyone who’s not here either, because no one is at fault. No one.” She punctuated the last two words clearly and she blinked, returning her eyes to the Steward. She hadn’t noticed that her eyes had drifted over to Boromir, but she was quick to correct herself.  
“And who are you to speak so boldly in a hall of kings? A woman from a faraway land, unaware of our customs, perhaps?” Denethor made it quite clear that she hadn’t given off a particularly good impression with that little speech of hers, but Boromir looked like she had punched him in the jaw. Surprised, a bit annoyed and slightly worried for her sanity, perhaps. She couldn’t blame him. She even found herself agreeing with him.  
“Oh, you have no idea.” Then, Amelia remembered the shreds of manners that she had scraped together over the years. “I’m, ah… Not from around here. Kings, Stewards, nobles, titles, That’s all, ah… weird, to me, and that’s putting it mildly, so I’m sorry if I seem a bit… informal? Casual?” She shrugged awkwardly. Denethor raised a thin eyebrow at her, but he seemed to let her odd mannerisms slide. She couldn’t deny that that brought her no small amount of relief.  
“And what of your… companions?” Amelia assumed that he was no longer addressing her. Gandalf bowed to him with a dramatic flair of his white robes.  
“Hail to you Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith. I bring both advice and messages to you in this dark time.” Denethor’s expression didn’t change, but Amelia got the feeling that its intention had changed from affronted bewilderment to mocking acceptance.  
“Certainly, we live in dark times, and in those, you often come to our gates, Mithrandir.” Amelia narrowed her eyes slightly at the elderly man. “Had I been brought the Ring, perhaps the coming tide could have been stemmed, but now… I am uncertain of what the future may hold for Gondor.” He straightened his back and clasped his sons shoulder again. “But for now, I shall feel joy at my son’s return. The White City shall know of his return this day! Come, Boromir. Tell me of what has been wrought and what awaits. I will listen.” That was as clear as dismissal as Amelia had ever heard it. Gandalf met her eyes and a silent agreement passed between them. Pippin nervously followed suit as the wizard and the woman turned and strode back the way they had come. Amelia did not feel good leaving Boromir along with Denethor, but she reminded herself of the obvious affection between them and came to the conclusion that a little time apart would not hurt either of them. It might even do them some good.    
Gandalf’s face fell as they emerged into the sunlight and Amelia bit her lip.  
“He definitely didn’t seem as bad as I feared, but not as good as I hoped either. I suppose… we’ll make do?” She made a hopeless little gesture with her hands as they strolled past the white tree and along the edge of the platform.  
“We can make do. You’re good at that.” Pippin’s little chirp made her smile fondly at him.  
“Yeah. Sometimes I feel like that’s all I do.” Amelia looked up, towards the east, where, behind a line of jagged, black mountains rising towards the sky like bony fingers reaching towards the clouds, an ominous, orange glow emanated. It was a fiery color, one that told of burning forges and hot volcanoes.  
“What is that white tree anyway, why are they guarding it?” Pippin’s voice interrupted her train of thought and she let Gandalf take the lead as they neared the end of the platform.  
“They guard it because they have hope. A fading hope, that one day it will flower, the king will come and one day, this city will be as it once was… before it fell into decay.” Amelia thought that decay was overstating it a bit, but she let him continue, knowing that he knew far more of such matters than she. “The old wisdom borne out of the west was forsaken. King’s made tombs more splendid than the houses of the living and counted the old names of the deceased dearer than the names of their sons. Childless lords sat in aging halls, musing on heraldry or in high, cold towers, asking questions of the stars… And so the people of Gondor have fallen into ruin. The line of Kings fell… and the white tree withered.” Gandalf stopped and leaned on his staff at the end of the platform, turning his gaze to the east, to Mordor. “The rule of Gondor was given over to lesser men.” Amelia put a hand on Pippin’s left shoulder as he, too, looked towards the dark lands and she could feel him stiffen beneath her hand.  
“Mordor.” He breathed.  
“Yes.” Gandalf sounded grim. “There it lies. This city has dwelled ever in the sight of its shadow.”  
“A storm is coming.” Amelia looked up at the dark, heavy, unnatural clouds approaching from Mordor, covering whatever lay beneath them in an uncomfortable darkness, even in daytime.  
“This is not the weather of the world. This is the device of Sauron, a broil of fume he sends ahead of his armies. The orcs of Mordor have no love of daylight, so he covers the face of the sun to ease their passage along the road to war.” Amelia grimaced to herself. “When the shadow of Mordor reaches this city, it will begin.”  
“And on that cheery note…” Amelia turned around as the doors behind them opened and Boromir stepped outside, looking upwards towards the sun. “It looks like our favorite gondorian was finally released. I don’t know about you, but I want to know how it went in there.” Amelia hurried towards him, looking for all intents and purposes as if she were on her way to sucker-punch him as soon as she was within reach.  He didn’t seem put off though. If anything, it was the opposite. “Well?”  
“I don’t know what you expect me to say.” He looked amused and Amelia rolled her blue eyes at him. She shoved his shoulder lightly in a playful manner. Pippin looked a bit surprised at the familiarity of their interactions, as if they had known each other for years.  
“Something about the dark times we live in, how grand Minas Tirith is, how annoying your father is and finally, how happy you are to be home. That sound about right to you?” Boromir chuckled at her and shook his head lightly. She returned his smile with a lopsided grin of her own, not noticing the confused look that Pippin sent Gandalf and the look of amusement that it was returned with.


	24. Beacons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Every really new idea looks crazy at first.”  
> -Alfred North Whitehead

The door to Amelia’s room was thrown open with such a bang that she nearly fell out of her bed in shock. She had been slumbering quite peacefully, since Boromir had been kind enough to persuade his father to let a room be made ready for her, and she had stumbled gratefully into it, but not before bidding Boromir a good evening.   
She let out a garbled string of displeasured noises at Pippin, making sure to let him know just how much of a nuisance he was.   
“Something’s happening! We don’t know what it is! Boromir…” At the mention of his name, Amelia sprung to her feet, but nearly fell on her face again, since she was still tangled in her sheet.  
“Well, get moving then!”   
“Right!” Pippin turned on his heel and hurried back down the corridor, with Amelia tagging along. Neither of them realized that she was in nothing but her underwear, her sheet wrapped around her torso and trailing after her like a cape.   
Pippin led her to the quarters of Boromir, which had a convenient balcony turned directly towards the glow in the east. Denethor, Gandalf and Boromir himself stood on it, all three with their backs turned towards the door. Gandalf turned when Pippin opened the door and Amelia strode in, as if she were wearing full armor, though she was still rubbing the remnants of sleep out of her bleary eyes.   
“Ah, finally.” He reached out and clapped her shoulder with one hand, while gesturing towards Mordor with the other. “Our Took seemed quite unnerved by that and insisted on fetching you. Boromir agreed, and quite insistently I might add.” As an answer, Amelia yawned him in the face before narrowing her eyes, trying to define what seemed to be the matter. Then, they widened dramatically.  
“The fuck?” She gripped the white railing tightly with her left hand and grasped the sheet around her neck tighter. “What is that?!” An unnatural beacon of light was reaching towards the sky from the mountains, seemingly from where Minas Morgul lay hidden, snug and secure, in a sickening shade of light green.   
“I was rather hoping you could tell- Oh!” Boromir had finally turned his head to look at her, but apparently found it improper to look at a woman dressed as she was in that moment. He sputtered and spun abruptly, nearly crashing into his father in the process.   
“I had not known you to fluster so easily.” Denethor seemed surprised and Amelia sighed, looking back at the light.   
“I… I don’t remember this, but… Uh… Maybe it’s a… a sign?” She gestured helplessly with her hands. “That their armies are on the move?”   
“Your guess is as good as my own, Miss Jones.” Denethor didn’t sound too happy about her in general, like she was an annoyance, but not a bother.   
“I can see where you get your sunny disposition from, Boromir.” He still refused to turn around, even as she addressed him directly. She gave Gandalf a look. “And I see you’ve been talking about me behind my back. I certainly don’t remember telling him my surname.” She sighed to no one in particular. “I suppose I should be flattered.” With one final, mighty flash, like lightning striking down, the beacon in the east ceased and Amelia blinked in the sudden darkness. “But I think it’s a safe bet to assume that Sauron is on the move. Figuratively speaking, of course.” Gandalf looked like he steeled himself for a dramatic declaration of some sort.   
“So we have come to it. The great battle of our time.”   
“Boromir, for the love of- I doubt I have anything you’ve never seen before. You’re acting… weird.”   
“And you act very boldly for a mere advisor.” Amelia caught Denethor’s goading and refused to give him the pleasure of letting him get to her.   
“Boldness is probably a good thing right about now. We need it. You need it. Gondor needs it.” Her words didn’t seem to make an impression. His casual dismissiveness of her, something he didn’t even need words to express, spurred her on. “If- when Sauron comes knocking, Minas Tirith won’t be able to hold him.” Finally, Boromir turned around, though he still refused to look anywhere near her. Her words seemed to trouble him greatly. “You need help. You can have it without much effort too. You won’t find a better bargain." The Steward didn’t seem interested, but that only caused her to push even further. “Light the beacons. Please, you haven’t seen what-“ Immediately, she picked up that those words were a mistake to say.   
“Haven’t seen?” Denethor’s voice was low, but intense, burning with a fire that nearly made Amelia take a step backwards. “I have seen the forces of Mordor, barely held at bay, at the price of the blood of the people of Gondor!” His words reminded Amelia eerily of Boromir’s at the Council of Elrond, but they were spat out instead of spoken proudly. “All my years I have lived in its shadow! Do not presume to know anything of me or my people, lest your own experience surpasses that of ours!” Amelia felt that, long ago, she would have shouted at him, or even be tempted to smack him, but something stayed her hand and her tongue, forcing her to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying her outrage out.   
“As you wish.” Her voice was calm, almost gentle, but anyone who knew her even in the slightest would not have been fooled. “My lord.” Boromir gave her a surprised look, but the way Amelia had her eyes narrowed to slits at his father told him everything he needed to know about her feelings. “If there is nothing else,” Her voice was curt and cold, “I’ll go back to sleep, since you’re all giving me the stink-eye. Well, except for you, Boromir. You’re not giving me any eye at all.”   
Amelia stomped out of the chambers with her head held high, nodding respectfully to the guards that she passed on the way. They all seemed puzzled, even unnerved, by her appearance. Amelia couldn’t blame them, thinking that was a fair assumption to make, that the Ladies of Gondor usually wore more decent clothes than their undergarments and a bedsheet, but found that she couldn’t care either. 

Amelia didn’t get any more sleep, though she sorely wished she had come morning. Her clothes had been taken for washing, leaving her with the options of wearing the dresses offered to her or nothing at all. She reluctantly chose the first option, which consisted of a dark brown, coarse surcoat over a green kirtle. It was the least complicated of the outfits available to her, resembling the dresses of the servants and maids she had seen around, and she preferred it that way. She went on the hunt for breakfast, but ended up in the courtyard, rather frustrated with her inability to navigate anywhere. By then, it was almost noon, since she had taken quite a while attempting to acquire some pants, and she had yet to see heel or nose of anyone that she knew. She considered asking the guards of the white tree directions, but decided that her dignity had suffered enough.  
She aggressively tied her hair back in a low, messy hairstyle that she couldn’t define as anything other than a jumbled mess of hair, and she paced restlessly. She could feel the eyes of the guards trained on her, but ignored them.   
Then, Amelia got the nagging feeling that her being unable to find Boromir wasn’t just due to her poor sense of direction.   
Feeling sick to her stomach, she swallowed her pride and stomped towards the guards, who eyes her wearily from beneath their polished helmets.   
“Excuse me, but, uh… Do you know where Boromir is? Or Gandalf or Pippin or… anyone important?” The guard spoke clearly and briskly, clearly in his professional state of mind.   
“A commotion at the gate to the city required their attention, milady. They left a scant few moments before you came out into the courtyard yourself.”  
“Son of a bitch.” The guard looked quite affronted. “Sorry, that… wasn’t aimed at you. Don’t mind me. Thanks a bunch. I just have a mouth that likes to get the better of me. Nothing to worry about.”   
The sound of distant horses caught her attention and she turned, spotting a white figure with a certain hobbit riding towards her, followed by many armored men in silvery plate and holding bows and spears. Their quivers were empty and their faces were weary, a few even seemed to wince with every step their mount took, and she spotted Boromir immediately amongst them. He rode beside a man who looked much like himself, but his face was younger, with a certain purity about it, and he seemed smaller than the eldest son of Denethor. Instead of running towards them and demanding answers that she knew would come regardless, Amelia crossed her arms and tapped her foot, giving them a glare reminiscent of a mother awaiting an explanation from a naughty child. She spotted the man riding beside Boromir asking him a question while inclining his head towards her and Boromir nodded. Whatever the answer, it seemed to amuse the younger man and he smiled, despite his obvious exhaustion.  
“Good morning.” Pippin greeted cheerily as Gandalf dismounted and helped the hobbit down from the white horse.   
“Morning.” Amelia drawled. She raised her eyebrows down at the hobbit, pretending that she wasn’t watching Boromir dismount his horse too. “And I suppose you’ve been out playing hero, leaving me all alone here. You could at least wake me up when something exciting happens.” Pippin looked so ashamed that Amelia couldn’t resist a smile. “Never mind. And I suppose you’re Faramir? Yeah, that makes sense.” The younger man, who really did take after his brother in appearance, but less stern, bowed his head at her.   
“Amelia, this is my brother, Faramir.” Boromir clapped his brother’s shoulder with a warm smile. Amelia had rarely seen him look so happy before. “Faramir…”  
“It’s an honor. My brother has told me of your exploits together, though I cannot say that he has told me enough.” Faramir bowed slightly to her, but she laughed lightly at his words.   
“My exploits? Now you’ve made me curious. Mostly, my exploits consist of pissing off authority and being a general pain in the ass. What on earth has he been saying about me?”   
“That you saved him and his life.” The gratitude in Faramir’s voice was unmistakable, but Boromir suddenly looked slightly irritated, as if Faramir had revealed more than Amelia ought to know. “And for that you have my utmost and eternal thanks.”   
“Yeah, well…” Amelia stumbled over her own words. “Don’t mention it. And that was probably the only big thing I did on our… adventure? Mission? Quest? My other deeds include getting blown up and saving the most sleazy little shitbird in Middle-Earth… for some reason.”  
“Faramir.” Gandalf’s interruption was rather unwelcome. “I must know what has come upon Frodo and Samwise. Tell me everything, from the start.”  
“Uh… hello?” Amelia waved a hand obnoxiously in his face. “Right here, my guy. They go through the what’s-it’s-name-pass and Frodo gets stung by a giant spider and abducted by orcs, but Sam saves his ass. Tada?”   
“So, what you said was true.” Faramir said dryly as Boromir gave her a startled look.   
“Yes, but she’s rarely so forward about it.”  
“Right… here, guys. Right here.” Amelia sighed to herself. “Besides, there’s nothing we can do about it now. It’s going to happen, whether we try to stop it or not, so… instead of concentrating on those things that we can’t change, how about we focus on those that we can.” Gandalf looked like he silently approved of her little outburst, attempting to hide a smile by stroking his white beard, even if his eyes were troubled.  
“Again, what you said rings true still. A remarkable woman indeed.” Faramir looked like he was enjoying the show immensely as Boromir hid his face in his right hand and Amelia blinked at him, scrutinizing him intensely. “Now, as much as I might not wish it, I believe that it is high time to face my father, is it not?” Faramir was more cheery than Amelia had expected, but she recognized some of the Faramir she had imagined in him and shrugged, putting a hand on Pippin’s shoulder.   
“If you don’t mind, I need to talk to Pippin. And Gandalf. And Boromir. Alone. Not that I don’t want to include you, but… yeah. I just need to…”   
“Amelia. It is fine.” Boromir managed to calm her a bit with those small words alone. She looked him in the eyes and nodded.   
“Okay. Just don’t pull the disappearing act again. You got a place that we can talk?” She eyed the guards dismounting their tired horses around them. The sound of horses, of metal boots hitting the cobblestones and low murmurs of conversation were all around them. Amelia couldn’t be sure of how many were listening in, but she wasn’t stupid enough to assume that their conversation was private.   
“We can talk in my chambers. No one will disturb us if they do not have a legitimate reason to do so.” Amelia nodded to Boromir and gestured with her hand towards the entrance of the keep.   
“Lead the way.” And so he did, back through the corridors lacking any natural lighting, much to Amelia’s chagrin, and up two stairs, until they finally reached the rooms belonging to Boromir, the same ones where they had seen the beacon of Minas Morgul the previous evening. The sheer memory made Amelia rub her eyes and attempt to suppress a yawn.   
“Are you tired?” Pippin’s innocent question didn’t get an immediate answer.  
“Yes. I am, Pippin. Very tired. Anyways, talk, right? Is there anything for me to sit on?” Boromir directed her towards an impressive divan, where she gratefully flopped down and blew a few strands of hair out of her face. The room was sparsely furnished, but still managed to be messy, with the bed unmade, despite its fine furs and carvings in the bedposts, and papers were piled on the desk in the corner, adorned with scribbles and sketches of various natures. All were in blue and red colors, a stark contrast to the white stone that everything was built of.   
“What did you want to talk about?” Pippin sounded curious and Amelia took a deep breath.   
“We need to light the beacon.” She doubted the Boromir could have looked more surprised if she had announced that the valar themselves would come to their aid against the forces of Mordor. Gandalf looked troubled, worried for her and for Gondor, whereas Pippin merely looked innocent. “I know it seems… a little rushed, possibly crazy, but there’s a good reason for it.”   
“Lighting the beacon without express permission is cause for arrest. Lighting it against direct orders are grounds enough for an accusation of treason.” Boromir sat down beside her, his frown making creases on his forehead appear. Amelia sighed again.   
“I thought so, or something like it at least. That’s why I wanted to consult you guys first. If you don’t want to help me, that’s totally cool. I get it and I won’t hold it against you, honest.” Amelia got the feeling that that declaration came as a surprise and she couldn’t blame them for it. Months ago she would also have been surprised at herself. “But by now, so many things have deviated from what I know that I’m… I’m scared, okay? Scared shitless that I’m going to mess things up for everyone. You didn’t die, Boromir, but that might have… other consequences… I suppose I can tell you bits and pieces of what would have happened, but… Sorry if I don’t hold all the answers.” Amelia took a long moment to choose her words and when she did, she still managed to word it in less than a graceful manner. “Basically, your father was a dick after you died.”  
“Boromir was supposed to die?” Pippin interrupted and Amelia stared at him.   
“Right. You didn’t know that. Of course. Yes. I saved his ass. Doesn’t matter. Anyways, he died and his dad went crazy and kind of tried to burn himself and Faramir alive and he almost did, but Faramir survived, but he didn’t and… he was mad in the end. Completely nuts. Accused Rohan of deserting Gondor even though he refused to light the beacon, and… I’m thinking, since you survived…” She nodded towards Boromir, whose face had gone deathly pale at her words. “I don’t know how far gone he is at this point. He might be fine. He might not. But what I’m concerned about is that damn beacon. I don’t know whether he’ll refuse to light it or not, I don’t know what he thinks of Rohan, I don’t know whether or when I’ll find out and I don’t like not knowing! I won’t wait around to find out either. I’d rather light the beacon now and get help for Gondor as soon as possible rather than…” She stopped her own ranting with the realization of how passionate her words had become and she looked down, not wanting to see the faces of the others. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t have any foresight to help me. I’m not basing this on anything I know in advance. If we do this… I can’t guarantee success. I won’t be able to stop it if something goes wrong.”  
“Were the beacons not lit originally?” Boromir’s voice sounded strained, as if he had trouble believing anything that she was saying.   
“Yes, but… So many things have changed. Your father won’t be happy, that’s for certain, but I’m willing to suffer the consequences.”  
“You do not know of what you speak. My father is a noble man…”  
“Your father is a dick.”   
“I will assume that that is some form of insult.” Boromir started to look angry. “You do not…”  
“Know what I’m talking about? If that’s all that you have to say, the door is right there, buddy.”  
“I’ll help.” Pippin broke into their escalating bickering with his light voice, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, but looking quite determined. “That is… I want to help. You. What I mean is… I trust you. And what you’re saying sounds… reasonable.” Amelia stared at the hobbit, but then she smiled brightly at him, her eyes shining like stars and her face lighting up like the sun.   
“Thank you.” Her voice was but a humble whisper. “Thank you, Pippin.”  
“I think it far too soon to be making such plans, but I will help you in this endeavor, Amelia Jones, for I did not bring you to Middle-Earth only to see you lost to your own folly.” Amelia chuckled lightly at Gandalf’s grumpy offer of assistance.  
“And there’s the Gandalf I know and tolerate.” Amelia glanced uncertainly at Boromir and her smile lessened until it barely existed. “Look, I don’t expect you to…”  
“I will not help you in this.” Boromir’s voice was firm and it seemed to Amelia like her stomach had plummeted and landed in a deep basement below them. “But neither will I reveal you. I will not defend nor condone your actions, but for me to condemn them instead would be going too far.” Amelia’s eyes widened and a bit of her grin returned.   
“Thanks. I mean it, this is… thank you. So much.” Boromir looked away from her and Amelia couldn’t decipher the emotion that flickered over his face for a scant moment. Amelia cleared her throat and shuffled in her seat. “Okay, so… when are we going to pull this off? I’d rather we do it as soon as possible, but if you want to wait…” Suddenly unsure of herself, she trailed off.   
“Why wait? We all agree.” Pippin thought aloud and Gandalf nodded slowly.   
“If I may get but a moment of your time before you begin then…” Boromir butted in unexpectedly and Amelia blinked at him.   
“Who, me? ‘Course.” That was cue enough for Gandalf and Pippin to take their leave of them, with Gandalf exiting quietly, white robes swishing in his wake, and Pippin following him, wringing his hands in anticipation of the upcoming actions.


	25. The Light of Distant Fires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Now I see fire  
> Inside the mountains  
> I see fire  
> Burning the trees  
> I see fire  
> Hollowing souls  
> I see fire  
> Blood in the breeze”  
> -Ed Sheeran, I See Fire

For a moment, the man and the woman sat on the divan, side by side, in silence.  
Then, Boromir rose from his seat and slowly walked out unto the balcony, gripping the railing loosely and gazing out, towards the horizon. A gentle breeze played with his brown hair. Amelia rose and followed him just as slowly, leaning on the railing with her forearms on Boromir’s right side, content to wait and see what he had to say when he didn’t immediately start talking.  
“It is not often people permit me to think on my words before I utter them.” It seemed like an eternity and no time at all had passed when he spoke at last, a surprising mirth showing in the wry twist of his mouth. “Most run out of patience long before then. It seems that you surprise me yet again.” Amelia grinned a bit at him.  
“True, I seem to have made a habit of that. Surprising you. But you do tend to brood a lot. You get this crease between your eyebrows…” Amelia laughed a small laugh to herself at his perplexed expression. “But you didn’t want to talk to me in a vain attempt at flattery. What’s on your mind?” Again, a long silence, one that Amelia was a bit more impatient to end than the first one.  
“I would ask you a question and ask that you answer truthfully.” He sounded hesitant, bordering on shy, traits that she definitely didn’t associate with the Captain of the White Tower. In increasing concern, Amelia reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, which seemed to shake him out of his deep thoughts somewhat.  
“I will if I can. I’m not one for beating around the bush. So spit it out, will you?” Her tone became teasing in the end of her otherwise soft words. Boromir nodded, a smile ghosting over his face, but it faded just as quickly as it had come to be.  
“I would ask you how I died, would you but give me an answer.” Amelia froze briefly, but then gaped at him. Of all the things for him the say, those words had been entirely unexpected and took her by surprise. Stunned silence followed, broken only by the distant sounds of the city below them.  
“You already know.” Her voice was harsher than she had meant it to be, but she had little choice in the matter, since all parades had whipped up again at his inquiry. “There were arrows, you got shot, you died. Without me, Boromir would’ve been No Moromir. What else is there to…”  
“Amelia.” She looked away from his face. “I know of the manner of my demise, but I am not asking you about that.”  
“You don’t want to know how you died.” The realization was a shock to her and she clenched her jaw. “You want to know whether you died… honorably.” Amelia couldn’t keep the strong disdain out of her voice. “Why does it matter? You didn’t…”  
“I have upset you.” Boromir stated and Amelia shook her head irritably.  
“More like annoyed.” She sighed and rubbed her face with her right hand, not daring to look at his face. “You really want to know? By your standards, your death was amazing. I mean, I assume it was, since it sure seemed that way. Your death… I don’t like to talk about it.”  
“Why?” He seemed genuinely curious as to why the subject was unpleasant for her. Confused, even. “It did not come to pass after all. What is the harm of a ‘what if’?, after all?”  
“I can’t allow myself to think like that. I won’t allow myself to think about you… dead. There is no ‘what if’. You didn’t die and you’re not going to. End of story.”  
“Again, I fail to understand you.” Frustration seeped into his voice and he frowned at her. Amelia narrowed her eyes at him as a thought struck her out of the blue.  
“I think you’re a liar.” Boromir’s eyes widened in surprise, but Amelia felt triumphant and she let it show. “I think you didn’t mean to ask me how you died. I think you just blurted that out to have more time to think about what you really wanted to say.” The following silence gave her all the answers that she needed. She scoffed at him. “Wow. Just… wow. Say what you want to say, otherwise, I have a beacon to set on fire.” Amelia almost turned away from Boromir, but something made her give him the opportunity to talk for just a little while longer. When she finally had had enough and truly began to go near the door, he spoke again, sounding immensely irritated with her and himself both.  
“I find myself… at a disadvantage. You are not what I expected.”  
“Which is?” Amelia couldn’t keep the annoyance and impatience out of her voice any longer.  
“A girl. A child playing at war. A child with knowledge of certain events, but I child nevertheless. Your behavior at the Council of Elrond proved as much to me.” Amelia blood boiled in her veins and she opened her mouth in indignation. “But then, you saved my life. More than that, you seemed to care. You still do. And that is what I do not understand.” Amelia stared at him as his words registered and something seemed to click within her mind. Then, she laughed, a low, genuine laugh, a laugh filled with honest wonder and surprise. She shook her head at herself and ran a hair through her brown hair, loosening it from its style in the process.  
“Of course.” She mumbled. “Of course it had to happen, here and now.”  
Then, Amelia turned and fled before any more of his words could make her head spin. 

“So? What did he want to talk about?” Amelia met Gandalf and Pippin on the path leading up to the beacon, standing close to the wall in order to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Pippin seemed quite curious, but Amelia shrugged innocently at him.  
“Oh, I just realized I’m an idiot, that’s all. Let’s just focus on that bonfire for now, yeah?” Amelia rubbed her hands together manically, in a poor attempt to banish the odd feeling in her stomach. “I have a bit of a plan, but you’re probably gonna hate me for it, and before you hear it I just want to say, I’m not proposing this to avoid getting in trouble myself… Okay. Pippin, I’m going to need you.”  
“Right.” He nodded faithfully, completely trusting of her. “What are we doing?”  
“Pippin…” She knelt down to look him in the eyes, as an equal. “You need to climb. I’m sorry that it has to be you, but that’s how it’s supposed to-”  
“I know. It’s how it’s supposed to be.” His absolute readiness surprised her. She didn’t dare look at Gandalf, but when he didn’t protest directly, she assumed that he would allow them to proceed. “Alright. You see that pillar of stone?” She pointed at the stone pillar holding up the large structure housing the beacon, visible to them from their position, and Pippin nodded. “Climb up it, throw some oil on it and light it. Then, get the heck out of dodge. You’ll find oil and fire up there already. Whatever you do, do not get seen, I repeat, do not let yourself get seen, do you hear me?” Pippin nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent. Gandalf, which beacon is the nearest?”  
“To the northwest, between the Drúadan Forest and the Grey wood, lies Amon Dîn.” The answer was grave and well-considered already.  
“Okay. Gandalf, I need your help. Please, watch Pippin while he climbs and keep an eye on the next beacon.”  
“You’re not staying?” Pippin’s courage seemed to falter slightly, but didn’t fail entirely, something that was a small, bitter comfort to Amelia.  
“I have… something to check on. More accurately, someone.”  
“Boromir?” Amelia grimaced dramatically at the name.  
“Heavens, no. But it is someone related to him though.” Amelia frowned and turned her eyes away, as though she was watching something distant and faraway, beyond the eyes of others. “So far, I have reasonable explanations for everyone’s absence this morning. Everyone but Denethor. I think he’s been gone all day and that, I don’t like. Not one bit. And I’ve got this horrible feeling that I’ve had ever since we came here that he’s…” Amelia bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of it sprung in her mouth and she forced herself to stop her assault on her mouth. “No use worrying you if it’s nothing. I just… gotta go check on him, you know?” Gandalf bowed his head in acknowledgement and Pippin shrugged, turning his gaze back towards the beacon.  
“Right…” He repeated to himself, quietly, seemingly more out of habit than a need of verbal confirmation.  
“Then… you know what you have to do?” Amelia’s voice gave away her anxiousness, something that displeased her in its vulnerability. Gandalf gave her a smile, one that reminded her of the days where he had been clad in grey, less of an ethereal figure, before he had been lost to the depths of Khâzad-Dum.  
“Run along, Amelia Jones. Do come back in one piece.” Amelia narrowed her eyes a bit and almost asked him what he meant by that, but then thought better of it and turned away, hurrying down the stairs she had climbed mere minutes ago, taking two steps at a time. When she reached the end of it, she wanted to quicken her pace even further, but relaxed her pace instead, as she reminded herself that rushing past guardsmen and townsfolk alike was likely to cause alarm. She even managed to extend a friendly nod to a few folk that she passed, but found that almost none of them cared to return the gesture. She couldn’t blame them terribly for that, since they lived in dark days and the stress of it all had to be a heavy burden to bear.  
Despite her forcing herself to walk slower than she would have liked, she reached the throne room swiftly, but realized that she had no idea of where to start looking for the Steward. Without much thought put into it, she steered towards Boromir’s rooms, but then thought to herself that that wasn’t too foolish of a path to take, since Denethor’s rooms were probably within relatively close proximity of his son’s. She wasn’t too keen on returning to those corridors so soon after she had left them, and in such haste, but she ultimately had little choice in the matter and overcame her queasiness.  
Again, the lack of natural lighting in the deepest hallways did not sit well with her, since she missed the sun and the fresh air of the high courtyard and the towers, but she marched on, holding her head high and straightening her skirt. Her footsteps were eerily loud in the corridors.  
When she passed Boromir’s door, she stopped in front of it, torn between keeping up her stride and peeking inside, to find out whether Boromir was brooding on his balcony or perhaps enjoying a few moments of rest, but the temptation was no match for her will and she passed it after barely a second’s hesitation, hurrying down the corridor.  
The feeling that some ill had befallen the Steward was overshadowed by the one that told her that he, himself, had been the cause of whatever had caused his absence throughout the day.  
“Ho there, milady! Might I have a word?” She turned to see Faramir hurrying towards her, a friendly smile on his scruffy face. She gave him a hasty smile as she kept walking, albeit at a slower pace. Her smile quickly faded and she made no attempt at hiding her unease.  
“You may, but keep up. I have something to check on.”  
“Which is?” He seemed genuinely interested as to what her mission entailed, as if it was no mere attempt at simple small talk. She sighed and gave him an exhausted look, letting some of the deep weariness she had started to feel seep through to the surface. Something made her trust Faramir. He bore himself well, humbly, but with a face shining with wisdom and an appreciation for the things that made life worth living. While he didn’t inspire immediate trust, he managed to make the desire for trust spring up just as easily.  
“Your father. I haven’t seen him since yesterday and something’s telling me…”  
“Ah.” Faramir nodded sagely. “I know of what you speak.” His voice held a tinge of bitter sadness, but also learned understanding. “It is not uncommon for my father to seclude himself, especially in such times of trouble. I wouldn’t worry too much. He is not a… sociable man.”  
“Mhm.” Amelia gave him a pointed look, but didn’t give him any other answer than that. She slowed her pace, since her cause for urgency had been diminished by his words, but still kept at a frisk walk. “You said you wanted to talk?”  
“I did.” Faramir smiled an odd little smile at her, though he seemed to think many thoughts. Amelia noticed that his eyes were the same color as Boromir’s, the color of stormy rainclouds. “I noticed that you and my brother seemed quite familiar with each other.” Amelia shrugged casually and tried to ignore her spiking heartbeat.  
“We’ve been traveling together for quite a while.”  
“Indeed.” Faramir seemed amused as they rounded a sharp corner, but it could have been the torchlight playing tricks with the shadows. “However, I do believe that that is merely something to consider, not the final conclusion.”  
“Huh. Weirdo-talk runs in the family, it seems. I don’t do riddles. Say what you want to say or shut it.” Faramir laughed lightly at her harshness. He seemed a jovial spirit, but tinged with an old sadness, constantly weighing down on him, despite his natural merriment.  
“Very well then. I shall speak plainly. Not long ago, my brother sought me and my advice out. He seemed quite frustrated with himself, but you even more so.” Amelia raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. Faramir stopped walking and she followed suit, crossing her arms and cocking her hips, a challenge in her posture. “If my memory serves, I believe the words ‘confounding’ and ‘stubborn’ were both used more than once.”  
“Well, I could say the same thing about him.” Amelia did not intend to take such criticism with a bent head, even if it was second-hand.  
“Of course. That is why I think you are so good for each other.” Amelia stared at him.  
“Pardon?”  
“You are his equal in all things. From what I have heard, you fight with a sword, ride like a man and carry yourself like a Lord and that is all well and good, but it is not of such things I speak. I speak of your heart, your spirit. Your stalwart stubbornness and your absolute loyalty towards yourself and those whom you have deemed worthy of it. In many ways, I see in you a reflection of my brother, but a prettier one at least.” Amelia was tempted to laugh, but kept up her façade. “My brother may be a warrior of great renown, far more so than myself, but he does not know himself as well as we would like. He does not know you as well as he would like.” Amelia easily picked up on the insinuation at the end, but broke eye contact, studying the tip of her boot sticking out from the hem of her dress.  
Then, she sighed and let herself fall.  
“I know.” Her voice was lower, more vulnerable than she wanted it to be, but she trusted Faramir, despite having barely spoken to him. “I… I know. I… I don’t think I love him. I don’t think I want to love him. I think… I think that I could. If things were different, if the world was different and we were different people, with different lives. I think I really could. I mean, the damn guy can really get my temper going when he sets his mind to it, but… I care for him. Very much. But… Faramir, you must understand, none of this matters. I don’t know whether it would last, were I to let it and… I can’t stay. I’m… I’m not from Middle-Earth, I mean, shit… I’m not even from this world. I was just kind of dumped here and stuff happened. I have a family, a family that I haven’t seen for months now. My parents, my brothers, my job, my home, my entire life… I’d be an idiot just to give all of that up. A lot of people would kill for the chance of having that and nothing more. Boromir… He is so much, but I don’t think he’s enough. He is one person. To let it all hinge on one dude would just be… the most shitty thing to do, ever. I won’t let my decision be based on one person.” Faramir seemed far more understanding than she deserved. She clenched her teeth and kept up a stoic face. He nodded slowly to himself, a thousand thoughts behind his grey eyes, and he didn’t seem to blame her for her reasoning in the slightest.  
“Ah, but there is one thing that gives me hope.” A tentative smile showed itself on his face, beneath his light scruff. “You agreed that there was a decision.” A small crease appeared between Amelia’s eyebrows, but then her mouth fell open and her eyes held too many emotions to put a name to. Faramir held up his hands. “Peace. I didn’t mean to cause you turmoil.” Amelia closed her mouth and her eyes, bowing her head.  
“Damn you. Damn this world that freaking wizard. I shouldn’t have agreed to come. I should have just… gone home, like a good girl and kept my fucking mouth shut.”  
“Would you rather that you had never come instead of having the experiences that you now do, both the sweet and the bitter?” Faramir cocked his head, looking puzzled. “My mistake then. You never struck me as a… what was it you said? A… ‘good girl’?” Amelia scoffed and hugged herself tighter.  
“Yeah, well…” She searched for the correct words as she started walking down the hallway again, incredibly slow steps that made her feet feel loaded with lead. “God, I don’t know. I don’t know anything, apparently. Just… you know what? I don’t want to talk about it right now. I just want to find out what happened to Denethor.” Faramir inclined his head again and they walked in a silence that was neither companionable nor unpleasant, merely filled with the myriad of thoughts that had been made available to Amelia.  
“My father’s chambers are at the end of this hallway.” Faramir spoke as they emerged from a winding staircase and Amelia raised an eyebrow at him, trying to summon the bits and pieces of attitude that she could still muster after their conversation. “I would not begrudge you the chance of checking on him yourself, even if I can assure you that all is well.”  
“Uh… thanks?” Amelia scratched the back of her head. “Yeah. Thanks. I’ll just go check on him then. Wanna come?” Faramir clasped his hand and straightened his back.  
“I fear I must take my leave of you. Good day, milady.”  
“Amelia.” She called after him as he turned. “Forget the ‘lady’-stuff. We don’t have all of that where I come from.”  
“But we are not where you come from.” Faramir’s comment was granted no answer and he left her standing in the hallway, the brown doors at the end of the hallway drawing her onwards, her feet moving of their own accord. Wisps of hair clung to her face and a feeling of unease made her chest clench.  
Her hand hovered over the dark, smooth doorhandle for a moment, her fingers tracing its intricate shape, but then it withdrew and she looked around, as if she were practicing some illegal art. No guards were within sight and that bothered her, for surely the Steward’s chambers would at least be adequately protected. The hallways were abandoned, deserted even. The corners of Amelia’s mouth drooped.  
“Not good.” She mumbled to herself and twisted the doorknob. It turned smoothly, but when she went to push the door inwards, it wouldn’t budge beneath her weight. “What in the…” She pressed, leaning on the door, and the low, painful sound of something scraping along the floor. “The asshole barred his door with a fucking chair!” Enraged, she gave the door several, solid kicks and each one pushed it inwards a bit further. Then, with a guttural roar, she threw herself at it and it flew inwards with a bang, sending her forwards on her face. She landed with a grunt and saw that a sturdy, wooden chair had been sent flying through the corridor.  
The entrance to the Steward’s rooms was a small hallway, probably for greeting visitors and family. It lead into a hexagonal room with a pillar the height of a small teenager standing in the middle, in the same shape as the walls around it and built of the same, white stone. A dark orb with swirling, murky depths lay upon it, stark in its darkness, as opposed to the fine, light colors of its surroundings. Denethor stood behind the pillar, with both his hands placed upon it. His face was scrunched up and his hands were red and swollen. The palantír burned with the blaze of distant fire, but the temperature in the room was bordering on icy, the air uncalm and whipping. Worse, it seemed almost as if the scrying stone was hissing and there was a foul voice on the air, carried by unseen currents. Denethor’s eyes were locked on some point within the palantír, pained and barely visible, as they were slits in his old face.  
Without thought, Amelia scrambled towards him, clumsily, gracelessly, and stretched out her arm, latching onto Denethor like an overeager leech. He grunted at the impact, but otherwise didn’t seem to notice her presence in the slightest.  
“Amelia Jones!” A booming voice rang out from the hallway and she let go of Denethor with a gasp, whirling around, and in so doing, one of her fingertips skimmed the surface of the stone.  
And Amelia screamed.  
A chorus of hammers on crude steel erupted in her head, howling and cackles, crackling fire and thousands upon thousands of screams, throaty and cutting her sanity like a blade and beneath it all, there was the sound of a blade being dragged over stone layered on top of a deep, shattering rumble.  
Then, flames consumed her, surrounded her and in front of her, an enormous eyes of fire, one that encompassed the sky, the air and the deep stone, with a black shape crowned with shadows and iron, wreathed in a cover of dark stars, making up the slit of a pupil.  
The voice came from the outside and inside of her, echoing all around her tiny form on the fire, rattling her teeth and making her knees buckle beneath her. The taste of sour bile rose up in her throat and her mouth, making her gag.  
“Vrasubatburuk ug butharubatgruiuk!”  
With a snap, the fire suddenly died and Amelia collapsed. She didn’t realize that she still hadn’t stopped screaming. Her eyes flickered about, unseeing, but then they fixated on the white beard hovering above her and its wearer’s thunderous expression before they glazed over, went blank and unseeing and blessed, numb nothingness descended upon her.  
The scream stopped.


	26. A Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “No one loses their innocence. It is either taken or given away willingly.”  
> -Tiffany Madison

Amelia twitched, her facial muscles contracting involuntarily, and the distant sound of murmuring ceased immediately. Something cold was laid on her forehead and for a moment, she enjoyed the brief respite from the fire, but it was quickly taken away again.   
Amelia was at once aware of her circumstances and oddly calm about them.   
She could not move. Not out of an inability to do so, but out of an overwhelming unwillingness. Her body felt heavy and thin, her skin stretched out over bones that were too large for it and her throat and lips were parched and dry. Her eyes were closed and her head hurt, as if it had been cracked open like an egg and sewn back together again. Sometimes, she was unable to control certain muscles in her body and they spasmed, or an unintelligible mumble of gibberish or a low plea for help from some unseen force escaped her. All this she knew and was aware of rather keenly, but was content to do nothing about it, for she had glommed onto the naïve hope that if she remained in darkness, the nightmare that she had seen, smelled and played part in would be just that- a cruel nightmare, a flimsy, horrible dream conjured of by her own twisted mind, a manifestation of her stress and the weariness that had settled deeply in her bones by then.   
She felt as if she was burning.   
Her blood coursed through her veins, her palms were clammy and her pale skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. Waves of heat wracked her frail body. She was sluggish, heavy and utterly unwilling to go a single step further in Middle-Earth.   
Something cool on her forehead once again gave her brief relief from the fever, but it was removed again all too soon and she shivered.   
In the distance, as if the sound was muffled through water, someone asked, impatience evident in their voice, how soon she would wake.   
“She will wake when she wills it and not a moment before.” Gandalf sounded weary, worried and exasperated with her in particular, but Amelia felt that, for once, she was permitted to save that one worry for another time.  
Satisfied with the few answers that she had gotten from listening in to those around her, no matter hteir actual identities, Amelia tumbled back into the confusing mix of dreams and nightmares that made no sense.

Painfully, dryly, Amelia drew in a deep breath through her nose and released it through open lips, wincing at the feel of her lungs expanding beneath her ribs.   
“Miss Amelia?” A small voice said closely to her ear, its tone worried and far too close for her liking.  
“Gandalf…” She breathed, her voice cracking several times on that word alone. “Get… Gandalf.” A brief moment of hesitation followed, but then came the sound of a hobbit’s feet on the floor, hurried and rushing out of the room, and Amelia felt that she had enough privacy to stir a bit. Her eyelids twitched and lifted, slightly, the slit of light making its way into her eye making them snap shut again automatically. Once more, she tried and forced them to remain open, even as her eyes reddened and became wet from the onslaught of light. For a second, she was blinded, but then the powerful light receded and she blinked. Normally, she would have scoffed at the funeral-like position that she lay in, declaring it dramatic, with her hands folded on her stomach beneath the sheet and her head on a white pillow, but instead, she just looked around the room, a terrible feeling of hollow emptiness filling her chest. Not even the dim glow of Cilya was a comfort, as it had been whenever she made a fist and felt its band on her hand.   
The room was sparse, its walls made of stone and containing a simple bed, with white sheets, that she lay in. A small table with dripping candles stood beside her and when she looked out the doors leading out onto a small balcony, she saw that it was nearing evening.   
“So, you have rejoined us at last, my dear.” Gandalf strode into the room with his white robes fluttering, his staff plonking down on the floor with each long step he took. He stopped at her bedside, glowering down at her. “And it was high time you did.”  
“How… how long…” Amelia’s voice was so hoarse that a strange whistling sound came from the back of her throat when she spoke and she fell silent again, trying and failing to keep eye-contact with Gandalf. Shame rose in her chest, partly from anyone seeing her in such a vulnerable state, and partly for some reason even she couldn’t decipher.   
“A few hours. Night is nearly upon us.” Pippin hurried into the room, breathing heavily, as though he had been running. Amelia gave him a wan smile that quickly disappeared. He shuffled on his feet.   
“What… happened…” She tried to limit herself to as few words as possible.   
“Much.” Gandalf’s answer was nowhere near satisfactory. “Still, you seem to have made it through.”  
“You touched the palantír!” Pippin’s impassioned exclamation made Amelia wince ever so slightly, but the hobbit thankfully didn’t seem to notice.   
“How… what…” Amelia felt exhausted and her confused mind wasn’t helping matters at all.   
“Easy now.” Gandalf sighed to himself. “You must wonder about a great many things. Peregrin, fetch us some chairs and let us see if we can’t figure out what transpired.”   
“Right.” Pippin nodded and took off, his curls bouncing on his head.   
“Now then,” Gandalf gave her a look. “Ask your questions, before he returns.” Amelia almost smiled, but felt as if something was stopping her from doing so. Her muscles refused to cooperate.   
“Pippin… touched… why…”  
“Ah.” Gandalf looked troubled. “Why did you have such a stronger reaction?” She nodded. “I fear that there is no easy way to say this; when you came into contact with the seeing stone of old, Sauron immediately sensed your presence.” Amelia felt goosebumps rising at the memory and her face twitched. “It would only take him the fracture of a second to detect you and even less time to feel the immense weight of the knowledge you held. He would have turned his full attention unto you, since you would be of far more use than an elderly Steward.” Amelia sneered weakly at the memory if Denethor’s foolishness. “He would cast him aside, turn his gaze and his power on you. He would not be patient, for I suspect he has endured Denethor and his whims for long by now.” Amelia gave a single nod. “You stood against the tide and you may not even have realized this. His will pitted against yours. It would only have lasted for a second, for I fear your mind would have snapped under the weight of it otherwise. Sauron the vile would have been unprepared for Peregrin’s presence. Since he was already in communion with Denethor, he was ready. You suffered the consequences.” Amelia’s eyes felt watery and in that moment, she hated herself for her frailty and weakness.   
“I saw… so much…” Her hands were shaking and she let her nails dig into her palms.   
“Now, I hate to ask you this, truly, but… what did you see? What did you tell him?” Amelia turned dead, blue eyes towards the wizard.   
“Death. Pain. Blood. Fire. So much… death. Suffering. I… I told him… nothing, but… he… told me… things.” With some difficulty, she relayed the phrase that the dark lord had told her, the guttural proclamation harsh in her softened, hoarse voice. Gandalf frowned.   
“A form of mockery. A greeting, holding an imitation of joy. I will not utter its translation here, but know that it is nothing good.”   
“Mmhm…” Amelia attempted to sit up, but pain lanced through her and she gave up immediately. ”Water…” Wordlessly, Gandalf retrieved a pitcher from a small cabinet, dipped it in the basinet beside it and brought to the small table, where several clay cups stood already. Attempting to reach out for one was no simple task and her hand was shaking too much for the liquid to stay in the cup. “Damn it…” Without speaking, Gandalf assisted her and a warm bubble of hatred with herself, as well as further shame, filled Amelia’s chest. “Thank you.” Just speaking the word was enough to make her cheeks heat in embarrassment.   
“You’re awake.” She turned her bleary eyes towards the doorway and saw that Boromir stood in it, a hand resting casually on the hilt of his blade. His relaxed posture didn’t reflect what he felt. Amelia knew him well enough to tell that he was worried in the extreme, and cautious, from the small crinkles around his eyes and the way his mouth was slightly twisted.   
“Just barely.” She rasped at him, and though she was happy at seeing him in general, she was still annoyed with him for seeing her in such a state. Her face was pale, her lips were dry, she was shaking like a leaf and her brown hair was loose around her shoulders. It was far longer than it had been when she had started on her journey.  
“And… how do you feel?” Hesitantly, Boromir came to sit on the edge of her bed. Amelia groaned at him. She didn’t reply and averted her eyes, somehow fearful of looking him in the eyes. Then, a gentle hand lifted her chin and blue eyes met grey ones. He seemingly studied her eyes intently for a long moment, but then, he sighed and dropped his hand.   
“What?” He gave her an odd look, one of regret and slight anger.   
“Your eyes,” He finally explained. “They have witnessed such things that can’t be unseen or forgotten. It shows.” Amelia frowned at him, but looked away again. “What happened to you?”   
“Sauron… happened.” Amelia’s lip twisted in a silent snarl, a glimpse of her teeth showing through it. “Denethor… happened.”  
“It appears your father has been using the palantír for some time.” Gandalf told Boromir gravely.   
“That’s why he… thought… you were dead.” Amelia’s slow formulating of her thoughts was as much of a bother to her as it was to the others. “Sauron… showed him.” Her wheezing breaths turned into dry coughs, but she swallowed them after a few gasping breaths and continued forcefully. “Should’ve… told you.” She gave him an awkward, pained half-shrug. “Sorry.” Boromir clenched his teeth and looked away from her. There was a long, heavy moment of silence. “Where’s…” Amelia’s eyes widened and her breathing quickened. “Faramir…”  
“His father has sent him to reclaim Osgiliath.” Gandalf sounded truly angry at last. “A fool’s order and a fool’s obeying of it.” Amelia looked horrified.   
“No, no, no… I was supposed to… to stop that!” Boromir paled, but she paid him no mind, too caught up in her own chaotic thoughts to pay any heed to his. “He’ll survive, barely, but… he’s going to be… injured.” Boromir looked greatly troubled, but it seemed to have lessened a bit after Amelia had revealed that he needn’t fear for his brother’s life in the longer run. “Denethor… he’s going to…” Then, Pippin burst in through the door, dragging several chairs of varying shapes and sizes with him.   
“I found the chairs!” He exclaimed excitedly, oblivious to the long faces in the room.   
“Gandalf, Pippin… would you give us a moment?” Boromir requested and the wizard relented, shooing a bewildered hobbit back out of the room and shutting the door behind him. Amelia blinked expectantly at him, wondering what he would have to say that would require privacy. “Amelia… I think that you have worried enough for now about my family and I. I insisted for so long on our coming here and I cannot bring myself to regret it, but the actions of my father, and through him, my own, are nigh unforgivable.” Amelia’s eyebrows jerked upwards at his candor. “And for that, you have my…” He stopped abruptly as Amelia, mindless of her personal discomfort, reached out and wrapped her arms around him, her grip surprisingly strong in her ailing state.   
“Your father… is an ass. You… not so much.” Her pale lips, still with an unhealthy pallor despite the hints of color that were returning to her complexion, quirked upwards a tiny bit. “Don’t apologize.” Slowly, he raised his arms and held her, carefully, as if she were made of the finest spun glass, as if he feared being too rough with her would cause her to shatter. “You are… amazing.” Slowly, but surely, Amelia gained more and more control over her voice, despite it still being terribly hoarse in its sound. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even… Denethor. Not even you.” She cleared her throat loudly and cursed the blood rushing to her cheeks, even though it brought a bit of color back into her face.   
“And here I thought it was still up for debate whether I was a good man or not.” Boromir’s jest was welcome in their serious talk and Amelia almost laughed, despite her heavy eyelids and exhaustion from their simple interactions alone.   
“No… no, it isn’t.” She said with a sigh as she was eased back into her pillow. “It simply… is.” Finally, she could let proper sleep take her, with the glint of Cilya being the last thing she saw, from where it still rested securely on her finger. 

When Amelia woke up again, she was alone, and felt much better than she had when she had visitors. It was nighttime outside, with stars shining in the sky, but despite their beauty, Amelia was uneasy. She remembered that Denethor had attempted to burn himself in the time of night, but she had never been good with dates and a full other day could very well pass before Faramir returned to the city, dragged by his spooked horse. Just the thought alone brought her an unpleasant feeling in her stomach.   
At the foot of her bed had been placed her belongings, her old clothes and Aeglos in its sheath, with her gloves placed innocently atop the pile. Dressing herself was a painstakingly slow process, but the little sleep she had gotten seemed to have done her a world of good and she donned her undershirt and pants with little discomfort, despite her aching joints.   
As she fastened the clasp of the cloak she had been gifted with by the elves of Lothlórien, she glanced at her gloves, lying innocently atop her bag and narrowed her eyes at them. Then, she shook her head and focused on fastening Aeglos to her hip.   
Above the basinet that Gandalf had filled a pitcher in hung a mirror framed in wood. Hesitantly, Amelia approached it, weary of what she might see in the glass.  
At first glance, all that seemed changed was that she was still a bit pale beneath the faint freckles she had gotten from being outside, wandering in the sunlight for so long, but that could be dismissed as nervousness for the coming battles. It was her eyes that held her attention, as she realized what Boromir had meant.   
Throughout their journey, her eyes had held some nameless spark of youth, making her eyes the eyes of one who had been raised in a world without death and despair. Her eyes had been those of a child, she realized. No longer. An inner glow, a nameless belief, had died when it had faced Sauron. Somehow, her eyes seemed a little deader, but not completely devoid of spirit.   
It was then that Amelia changed the when of her going back to an if.   
She was certainly capable of and looking forward to coming home, but somehow, the idea of it seemed strangely distant, more like a dream or a wish than an actual possibility. Much as if her life and everything that she knew about it had been a grand puzzle and her piece had changed, molded into something older, more hardened, but also with new perspectives and sympathies.   
She couldn’t contribute it all to her infatuation with Boromir either. There were other things in her life than him. There was blood, battle and something broken, but there was light too, light in the friendships that she had formed with the Fellowship, in what had changed in herself, in the beauty in the world that others took for granted, but that she was able to appreciate, for she had never seen it with her own eyes before. Occasionally in her travels, she would have pointed out something utterly mundane, like flowers, peculiar architecture or the natural habits of others, only highlighting the minimal, but astronomical differences that served to make each and every world its own, a unique combination of its people, its lands and the very lifeblood of it.   
Though it had been a wondrous journey, it had also been a taxing one and at the end waited a choice that Amelia was no longer certain that she could make. Her exhaustion had become a constant companion as of late, the exhaustion that came from fighting and running and the uncertainty that came from living in times of war. She was most tired of trying though, and she thought so to herself as she looked into her own blue eyes in the mirror, tired of trying to be better than her best and tired of bearing the weight of a burden she had never asked for in the first place.   
Amelia glanced back at her bag, wondering whether she ought to don her coat, her gloves or bring any of her belongings with her out of the room, but then turned away again and rested her hand on the doorhandle of the door, hesitating for a scant few, fragile moments. In a flurry of jerky movements, she hurried over to the backpack, pulled a single item from its depths and then turned. She scoffed at herself, wondering when she had become so melodramatic in her actions, her words and her thoughts in particular. She was running out of time, but she still had a good amount left. She turned the knob on the door and left the room, a hand resting on her sword and Cilya positively beaming in the dim lighting on the other.


	27. Descending Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Why did you do all this for me?' he asked. 'I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.' 'You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.'”   
> -E.B. White, Charlotte's Web

“I fucked up. I fucked up, I fucked up so bad…” Amelia mumbled wretchedly to herself as she burst into the courtyard, her short sprint having taking more out of her than she had anticipated. Striding down the hallway, something had slid into place and she had nearly tripped over her own two feet as she broke into a run.   
Once again, much as it had happened in Rivendell, the order of events had been changed, and quite drastically at that. Faramir’s desperate charge towards Osgiliath was much too soon and Amelia failed to comprehend why Boromir wasn’t leading the charge, or why he had even permitted his brother to partake in such an attack in the first place. There were, at that point, an ever growing number of things that she failed to wrap her head around, since they didn’t match up with the books or movies that she was familiar with.   
Breathing heavily, she looked around for any sign of someone she knew, but night was falling and she could see no one. Even the four men guarding the white tree were gone, presumably to assist in preparation for the coming siege.   
“Oh, man… oh… okay… just… need to…” Her first idea was immediately to look for Boromir, but she wasn’t certain that he was even still in the city. His relationship with his brother was fierce and she didn’t have a good reason for him not to ride with him. Perhaps he had ceased command to allow Faramir to share the glory, to place him in the spotlight for once. Amelia nodded nervously to herself, wringing her hands. “So… situation. I’m here. I don’t know where anyone else is. Pippin and Gandalf are around… Boromir’s probably not, he’s off doing his thing and, well…” She groaned. “What can I do?” Taking another deep breath, she looked around again and cast a sour look at the dark clouds approaching. They had almost reached the city, but still not entirely, so she had at least an inkling of time left. “I can keep calm and find someone. Yes.” With a jerk, Amelia set one foot in front of the other and walked across the empty courtyard, her footsteps eerily loud in the lonely silence of the night. She rolled her shoulder and her fingers tightened around the hilt of Aeglos.   
Then, she turned and looked down at the rings of the city below, and stopped dead in her tracks. After a moment where she stood as still as hewn rock, she hurried to the edge, leaning so far over it that she was less than an inch from plummeting down.  
Whereas the citizens of the white city had buzzed about, most trotting a frisk pace to run an errand or another, some strolling lazily through the streets, a few sprinting about and a handful guardsmen standing at corners and small gates, in the night, where it ought to have been empty, the city was filled with life. Almost no guards were visible from her position, but those that were present were easily identifiable by the torches they carried and the shouts they made, ordering some folk to a place or another. However, they had no small degree of trouble keeping order in check, for it seemed that all of the citizens of the city had decided to clog the streets. Children cried, their wails cutting through the air like knives, as they were pulled along or carried by their parents, who had their arms laden with personal trinkets and useless stuff of no real value in a war. A small, select few seemed smart enough to bring with them their knives or small baskets of fruit and bread, but they were far outnumbered by sentimental wives or children with their wooden toys. Their arguing and thick fear permeated the air and Amelia’s face twisted at the pitiful sight.   
“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” A sad voice came from behind her, but she had noticed the soft sound of footsteps and wasn’t surprised by her friend, even though she was gladdened to see him.   
“It’s war.” She answered grimly, inclining her head towards the hobbit. “So, yes. Man, the movies always left these things out, the… the irrelevant-to-the-plot panic of normal people who doesn’t stand a chance because they’re not major characters with enough screen time…” She shook her head, oblivious to Pippin’s half-hearted look of curiosity. “But it’s real. Even if we don’t see it, it is. They’re just as…” Amelia grimaced and turned away from the sight, even though she couldn’t block out the sounds. “Never mind, just having a bit of a moment here. Where’ve you been? And what are you wearing?” Pippin had donned a child-sized chainmail beneath a black undershirt, with the sigil of Gondor proudly displayed across the chest. His cloak from Lothlórien hung around his neck, as its twin did around Amelia’s, and his dagger had obviously been sharpened.   
“I thought… well… since all those poor people are going to need some help… I might as well make an oath to do it, right?” He gave her a nervous smile, clearly uncertain as to whether she would approve or not. Amelia hummed a little and looked away.   
“I’m not your mom. It’s not my place to tell you what to do with your life.” Too late, she realized that may have been a bad choice of words and she hastened to correct her mistake, before all the color left Pippin’s face as he paled. “I mean, I shouldn’t tell you what to do! Becoming a certified gondorian might not’ve been part of the plan, but it’s nothing bad.” Pippin nodded quickly, but still looked like he needed a healthy dose of longbottom leaf to get past the shock. Amelia sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Now that we’re on the subject, I probably ought to get some sort of mail too… facing down the forces of darkness in a tank top sounds like anything but a good idea.”   
“Well… I can show you to the-“  
“Oh, fucknuggets.” Amelia rushed past Pippin as an entourage of at least fifteen people, including Gandalf, Denethor, Boromir and the myriad of guards swarming around a body hoisted up and carried by six of their fellows, burst up the wide stair leading into the courtyard from the more common parts of the city. He started to exclaim a question, but when he saw what she was running towards, his words died in his throat and it didn’t take long before he was hot on her heels.   
“Is that…” He yelled behind her, but Amelia didn’t answer his question, her gaze fixated on the moaning Steward.   
“My son… my son… was it not enough to lose one? Was it not enough for doom befall me and ensnare my city? Now my son is lost to me, lost…” Denethor hid his gaunt face in his large hands, but Boromir grasped his shoulders and his voice was firm when he spoke, despite his own eyes mirroring his father’s anguish.   
“Lost he may be, but what is lost can be found again. He cannot be dead.”   
“Screw ‘cannot be’.” Amelia forced her way through the guards, who cast her suspicious looks, but didn’t seem to consider her an active threat to their liege, and acquiring a few bruises in the process. “He isn’t. Man up and accept it. The pretty ones always make it.” Amelia gave Denethor a distasteful look. “Though, judging by that standard, you should probably be worried.”  
“Amelia, no.” Boromir said firmly, putting a heavy hand on Amelia’s shoulder. She gave him a dark, angered look, but she could tell his stern face covered over exhaustion, worry and enough amounts of stress already, so she let her irritation slide for his sake, her shoulders sagging with surrender. Pippin’s eyes widened in surprise and his mouth popped open in awe.   
“He needs medicine, sleep and a doctor- sorry, a healer.” She sneered at the gathering of onlookers, most of which didn’t seem to know what to think of her interactions with the Captain of the White Tower. “So get moving. And, uh…” She glanced uncertainly at Denethor, who was stroking Faramir’s hair with a gloved hand. Amelia wondered where the paternal affection had been hiding when his youngest had still been up and around, but she did have more important things to worry about. “If, by chance, Denethor happens to ask for a bunch of wood and oil and some torches to go along with it all… don’t listen to him, it’s the old age setting in at last.” Boromir coughed loudly at her last two words and she blinked innocently at him. He shook his head, put his face in his left hand and sighed deeply, but then seemed to remember that they had an audience. He straightened his back and nodded.   
“Do as she says. That goes for the last part as well.” He glanced at her and she nodded.   
“Especially that last part. Otherwise, your old man is going to become Steward a la flambé somewhere within the next twelve hours. Give or take.”  
“I suppose I should count myself fortunate to not know what that means.”   
“Very.” Amelia glanced at Faramir, whose face was pale and sweaty in the last moonlight. She cringed and looked away, remembering the lively young man, who, despite his youth, had somehow seemed wise beyond his years. Automatically, she reached out and put a hand on Boromir’s back, while at the same time thinking hard to herself. The guards carrying Faramir set in motion again, carrying the man away while his father followed, wringing his hands, leaving Amelia, Boromir, Pippin and two other guards that were quickly dismissed.   
“The charge failed.” Boromir explained, looking out towards the faint shape of Osgiliath, illuminated by the light of the moon and the stars, with sad eyes.   
“Wow, what a surprise.” Amelia rolled her blue eyes, her tongue sharper than usual due to her growing anxiousness overall. Boromir gave her a look, but didn’t answer her quip directly.   
“If there is nothing else…” Boromir sighed as the last two guards scrambled off, presumably to dust off the old ballistae that still stood around the city.   
“There is. Sorry.” Amelia interrupted flatly and Boromir gave her a weary look. Pippin shuffled on his big feet beside her. “Two things, actually.” With a huff, she rolled her shoulders and looked down at Pippin. “I figure telling you this can’t cause much harm, it’ll just give you even more to worry about, so…” Amelia scowled at the retreating back of Denethor. “I think I just prevented your dad setting himself on fire.”   
“What?” Boromir exclaimed harshly and Pippin frowned beside her.   
“You see, according to what I know, the guy really lost his marbles when he thought Faramir had been killed like you had. So, naturally, he tried to burn himself and his son alive, even though he wasn’t actually dead.” Amelia frowned a bit, thinking back. “Though I can’t for the life of me see why he would do that now. I mean, you’re still around, we got Faramir to a healer, at least I hope we did, and presumably, he’s stopped using the Palantír by now. The appeal has to have vanished taking that into consideration. However…” Boromir looked like he deeply wished to be anywhere but within earshot of her foretelling of the future, but he stayed. “That offers up a whole new set of problems all on its own. Mainly, I don’t think he’ll think much of Aragorn, I mean…” She gave him a pointed look. “You didn’t. And we don’t have time to win him over… but we need him as king. If Denethor marches on the…” She froze. “Never mind about that. Point is, those two are going to clash at the worst possible times for them to do it, and I don’t need any foreknowledge to tell you that. So, we’re in a bit of an iffy with Denethor and Aragorn.”   
“The last thing this city needs is a struggle of political power.” Boromir agreed slowly, his grey eyes far away.   
“And yet, that’s what it’ll get if nothing changes. If you’re wondering, I’m still working on fixing that… somehow. Preferably without anyone dying in the process.”  
“Preferably…” Boromir mumbled incredulously to himself.   
“And since I don’t have a mariachi band on hand, I’m fresh out of ideas. Let me get back to you on that.” Amelia scratched her neck. “Now, that other thing I meant to talk to you about. Do you two want to help me get something better to wear, ‘cause I won’t last five minutes in this.” She gestured at herself, twisting her body to show off her thin shirt and pants.   
“By all standards I know, you are dressed in little more than undergarments.” Boromir added helpfully and she froze, glaring at him.   
“Well, nice to know that I’ve been traipsing across Middle-Earth in nothing but my skivvies.” Amelia looked at Pippin, but noted with some satisfaction that it looked like Boromir’s ears were faintly pink, presumably from their accidental choice of subject. “You said something about showing me where you got your gear?”  
“Someone brought it to me, but I know where they got it.” Pippin’s enthusiasm shone through once again and Amelia cocked her head.   
“Great. Lead the way. And you…” She grabbed Boromir by the scruff. “Is coming with. No friend of mine is going to wear himself out by stressing about the siege before it’s even begun.” 

“Why is this so heavy? And it’s hot! If those orcs don’t kill me, this ridiculousness certainly will!” Amelia exclaimed loudly, pulling at her collar. “It’s chafing.”   
“It’s not meant for comfort.” Boromir chastised behind her, tightening the dark brigandine in various places. “It’s meant for protection.”   
With Pippin’s enthusiasm and Boromir’s expertise, the three of them had managed to dust up what amounted to a light gambeson beneath a dark brigandine, bracers with the tree of Gondor burned into the leather and a pair of studded greaves several sizes too big. It was rather obvious that it had all been made for men, men much larger than her, since it hadn’t been made to accommodate a woman’s curves and therefore was too tight in some places and too loose in others, but it was the best that they could muster in the given circumstances. It all went over her old pants and shirt and her cloak was fastened around her neck as the finishing touch.   
Amelia couldn’t remember a time when she had felt so uncomfortable, but she reminded herself that she had asked for it and her pride didn’t permit her to renege on her request.   
“I’d expected more people to be here.” Amelia wondered, looking around. Some guards were arguing in low voices in a corner and a few volunteers for the militia hurried around amidst the racks of spears and mail, nervously weighing various weapons in their hands and testing the bowstrings, but other than that, the armory, dimly lit by torches on the walls and with the smell of metal and sweat heavy in the air, was empty of the throngs of people that had otherwise occupied the one like it in Helm’s Deep.   
“Most of our fighters have already armed themselves, and there are more than one armory in the white city, in the event of an attack.”   
“An event that’s pressing its nose against our figurative window right now.” At last, Boromir seemed satisfied with the straps and stepped back, squinting at her as she tried to see where Pippin had disappeared to. At last, she spotted a mass of curls bobbing down the aisles and returned her attention to herself. “You know… I’m really tired of war.” Boromir chuckled to himself and Amelia dug her nails into her palms at the sound.   
“I’d be worried if you weren’t.”   
“No, I mean… I’m tired. I’ve slept through the night and all, but I just feel like…” An odd smile crossed her face and she made a strange sound that could have been a choked laugh. “Like butter scraped over too much bread.”   
“I understand.” Boromir gave her a look that told of far too much experience with the art of warfare and the consequences it could have for the spirit. “Many of us here, with the lands of Mordor ever on the horizon, have felt as you do now in our years.”   
“Hm.” Amelia hummed, offering no further answer.  
“The siege will begin soon.” Boromir finally seemed satisfied and clasped her shoulder, something flickering in his grey eyes when he looked at her. “If you are not…”   
“What, comfortable? Ready?” Amelia’s eye twitched and she rolled her head on her shoulders, feeling the pops rather than hearing them. “I don’t think I’ll ever really be ready for something like… this.” She gave Boromir an uncertain look as they slowly began to walk towards the doors leading out into the city, both of them reluctant to leave behind the little bubble in the armory. Pippin followed along, but he seemed to keep his distance out of respect for the both of them. “You know… I’m really grateful for this. I mean, most people have to work or pay for armor if their work doesn’t dole it out for free, right? But you’re just… giving it to me. So… thanks.” Boromir bowed his head and her.   
“It would be witless not to.” Amelia hummed at his words.  
“Are you going to be out there, keeping the men in line?” Boromir gave her a wan smile that didn’t reach his eyes.   
“I’ll have my hands full keeping you in line already.” With those words, he pushed open the heavy set doors of the armory and they swung outwards, letting the smells and sounds of the night stream inside.   
Somewhere, a baby’s cries rose above the tension thickening the air of the streets.


	28. Tooth and Nail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If you’re going to kick authority in the teeth, you might as well use two feet.”  
> -Keith Richards, Keith Richards: In His Own Words

Amelia’s legs burned as she rushed after Boromir, the streets alive with panic, and narrowly avoiding several collisions with grown men and women, who all fled in wildly differing directions, all semblance of order having been abandoned after the first stone had been hurled at the city.   
Had daylight still been present, it would have been only a scant two or three hours away from dawn, but dark clouds hung over the city and not a sliver of light slipped through.   
Amelia had barely stepped out of the armory when a tower above them had exploded into a rain of rubble, white bricks cascading downwards, because a boulder, bigger than even Boromir, who was wide of shoulder and tall even for his line, had been hurled into it. The houses, walls and watchposts of Minas Tirith were tall and the streets not particularly wide, and thus Amelia had no view of the field of Pelennor. She knew that, while she had been scrounging up scraps in the armory and stealing precious moments of the son of the Steward’s time, who most likely had automatically been placed in charge of the city’s defenses, the siege of the city had begun.   
“Watch it!” She snarled, the tension getting the better of her, when a burly man bumped her shoulder painfully. He shouted some obscenity back at her, but she rolled her eyes and followed Boromir’s back, who was getting further and further out of her reach. He didn’t hear her calls for him to slow down, as they were drowned by the cacophony of screams and shouts piercing the air already, but she kept her pace and didn’t lose track of him, even in the chaos of the crowd.   
Then, she was thrown to the ground, along with everyone else, as half a dozen small houses to her right, the ones facing outwards towards the Pelennor, exploded into a fiery rain of debris. The air was knocked out of her and someone screamed into her ear, but she heard it through a haze of shock and confusion, her ears ringing and her hip paining her from where it had collided with the ground in an awkward position. Her head throbbed and her face and hands were covered in grazes and scrapes.   
She coughed and choked on the dust, thick in the air as it was, and got to her feet on wobbly legs, disorientation making her head spin. All sound was muffled, as though she was under water, and her balance was shaky at best. Then, her eyes were drawn towards the massive hole in the line of houses, from where a flaming boulder had been launched into, and she stumbled forwards, gripping the smoking edges of the remains of the walls for support as the dust settled.   
The field of Pelennor was black. Black and alive, alive with the thousands of orcs, wargs, trolls and beasts that snarled, growled and jeered, their ranks shuffling back and forth in a poor presentation of order, with myriads of torchbearers illuminating the coming doom of the white city with the flames that they carried. Siege engines, tall towers on wheels, ballistae and trebuchets, all built for war, were pushed and pulled forwards, approaching the white walls of Minas Tirith slowly, but surely. The sound of grinding wheels, the lashes of whips and marching, mixed with the insults and curses the army threw at the people of Gondor, streamed into the city, carried by the wind, along with the pungent odor of sweat, smoke and evil intent.   
Even had they been half of their numbers, they could have taken Minas Tirith easily, given enough time.   
Amelia stared at the force, dumbfounded, unable to comprehend the sheer vastness of the horde of orcs, her lips parted and a crease resting between her eyebrows.   
“Up.” She mumbled the word to herself, but her ears didn’t hear the word over the ringing in her ears and the churning pandemonium around her. “Up. Up. Up.” She staggered away from the view, turning on her heel and nearly falling over, and walked in the direction leading to the upper rings, stumbling and fumbling in the absolute chaos. She was too confused to realize that, several times, she tread on the limbs, occasionally severed from their bodies, of those who had not been lucky enough to survive the blast. Not all of the blood staining her was her own. Her blue eyes were unfocused and her steps were without their usual purpose and drive, though, inch by inch, she staggered forwards, towards where the great gates into the next ring of the city stood, proud and tall and inlaid with motifs of trees and eagles.   
“Amelia!” A voice cut through the fog clouding her mind and she spun wildly, staggering sideways and colliding with a wall immediately afterwards. She groaned and groggily tried to find the owner of the voice, her sight spinning oddly.   
A small hand then gripped her left one, as her right shoulder was still pressed against the wall of a house that happened to still be standing, and she blinked down at the worried face of a hobbit, whose name she struggled to remember. His lips moved, as if he were speaking to her, and it looked as if he asked her a question, inquiring about her wellbeing perhaps, but Amelia couldn’t hear any of the words he spoke.   
“Pippin…” She breathed and he seemed to give up, switching to pulling her along with him as he rushed towards the doors and, with his direction, Amelia made it through it in thrice the time it would have taken her, had she been alone and in her state.   
As she passed the doors, it was as if the fog in her mind was dispelled, but pain replaced it and she stumbled, gasping for breath like she had been submerged in water. Her thoughts flooded back into her mind like a river, but they were still addled by confusion and hurt.   
“Gandalf! Where is Gandalf?” Pippin shouted, but there was only fleeing guards, ordinary men and women thrown into a bloody war with no warning, and they had no answers as to where the white wizard was.   
“Ow.” Amelia stated emotionlessly as Pippin pulled her along, her pain and confusion giving way to numb shock, but even then, there was some small part of her that was planning for every contingency, recalling details that could perhaps come into play later and frantically shouting that she ought to pull herself together.   
“Gandalf!” Pippin shouted again, but his voice was clearer and more relieved than Amelia had expected. She followed his line of sight, blinking the blurriness out of her vision, and realized that the old man in a white bathrobe hurrying towards them was Gandalf himself.   
“Hey.” She smiled woozily at him as he reached them. Pippin pulled her out of the stream of people, so that they stood at the side of the road, where they could talk more freely. Amelia tittered at the wizard, though she wasn’t completely certain why.   
“What has happened?” Gandalf asked Pippin seriously, seemingly worried at the sight of Amelia. When she looked down herself, she saw that she was covered in a thick layer of grime, that her brown hair hung in tangles around her face and that she had never looked quite so battered before.   
“I got blown up.” Amelia grinned widely at Gandalf. “Again.” She choked on a laugh and swayed slightly on her feet. She hummed to herself as Gandalf lightly placed a hand on her brow and closed his old eyes, muttering to himself. Slowly, Amelia’s smile faded and, as Gandalf opened his eyes again, she stared at him. “Uh…” She fumbled for words as he gave her a knowing look. “The battle’s started.” She informed him helpfully, at a loss for words.   
“Well, I’m glad you’ve noticed.” He grumped at her. The three of them jumped as a boom sounded distantly and Amelia tensed, a nagging feeling springing up in the back of her head and the muscles of her shoulders tightening, but Gandalf merely shook his head.   
“The gate will hold.” He stated, though he sounded as if he was trying to convince himself most of all.   
“Shite. I forgot about that.” Pippin’s eyes widened slightly as Amelia grimaced. “It’s going to hold for now at least, but pretty soon, they’ll bring in the big boy and then things’ll get ugly.” Amelia rubbed her palms against each other, too busy with her hazy recollections to pay attention to Pippin or Gandalf, both of whom looked concerned at best.   
The ground beneath their feet rumbled as a large boulder landed in the ring above them, sending white debris raining down and the three scattered. Amelia held her hands over her head to shield herself from the worst, but that only gave her several long cuts on her hands and wrists.   
“Those bastards are gonna bring the whole city down on us if they have to!” She shouted at Gandalf, who looked as disheveled as Amelia felt herself to be. “We have to find Denethor!” The distant scream of a woman filled her ears and another cascade of white bricks flew down from above. “Or some fucking good cover, and soon!” Amelia sensed something warm and sticky running down the side of her head, but she had no time to assess whether it was a mere nick or a more serious injury that caused her to bleed. “Pippin!” She looked around wildly, but she couldn’t see the hobbit. “Gandalf!” Then, a small hand grabbed her right and pulled her with him, rougher than what she had even thought him capable of, up and through the chaos filling the streets of Minas Tirith. Amelia swore the Steward into oblivion as she ran, anger and fear churning in her stomach as she felt ground of white stone shake and heard the screams of both the old and the young, one dying just as easily as the other. It was turmoil, turmoil in the darkness that had descended upon Gondor’s capital.   
Pippin’s hand was pulled roughly out of hers as the stampede of terrified citizens threatened to trample him and Amelia had to grab his scruff, pulling him out of the middle of the road and as close to the still standing buildings flanking it as she could. At the sound of yelling, not yelling born of fear, but of command, she tried to look down on the lower rings again. The remaining captains desperately tried to gather their men as towers of word were shoved up against the walls of the city, towers that allowed the orcs to climb up and over and into the city itself.   
“What is it?” Pippin shouted and Amelia bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Then, she pulled him with her as she continued to shove her way through the citizens.   
“Towers.” She yelled back over her shoulder. She stumbled as an armored guard slammed into her left shoulder. “They’re sending orcs into the first ring. They’re trying to- get down!” She pulled Pippin down with her as an enormous boulder, covered in oil and set aflame, sailed over their heads and into a tall house with a flowerpot in every window. Stone and fire rained down and people threw themselves to the ground or ran ever faster. “Come on!” She pulled Pippin with her as she painstakingly got to her feet and set into a dead sprint, making for the courtyard of the highest ring. Pippin yelled something, but it was lost in the roar of the army outside the city and the screams of those within it.   
Amelia stumbled as she, at last, reached the courtyard, but Pippin pulled her up again and onwards. Amelia bled from both her head and hands, but her mind was no foggier than usual and her legs worked well enough to carry her.   
“Where is Boromir?” Denethor and Gandalf were already in the courtyard, caught up in a vicious argument, but Gandalf approached her as soon as she scrambled towards them, Pippin hurrying after her.   
“Out in the city somewhere!” Amelia shouted, though there was no need, as the wizard was quite close and she was no longer surrounded by panicked townsfolk. “Trying to do some damage control!” She didn’t lower her voice, as she thought it to be quite fitting, but she forgot to think that perhaps the ringing in her ears hindered her hearing somewhat. When Pippin sent her a strange look, she misinterpreted it as worry for Boromir instead. “I’m not his nanny!”   
“All is lost!” Denethor exclaimed angrily and Amelia was quick to groan and roll her eyes. “You have not seen what I have!”   
“Shut your shit, grandpa, or I’ll shut it for you!” Amelia scowled at Gandalf, who was frowning at her. “Why haven’t you locked him in a cellar somewhere?”  
“I will not be-“ Denethor cried and Amelia’s posture changed for the threatening.   
“Shut up!” She shouted at him, anger making her fists shake. “Your people have suffered enough without your inane ramblings making it even worse for them now!”   
“Amelia Jones!” Gandalf exclaimed and she growled aggressively. “Hold your tongue! It does little good here and now!” Amelia continued to mumble fiercely beneath her breath.   
“Our doom is approaching. It is nigh.” Denethor didn’t yell the words. Instead, they came out broken and filled with despair. Then, he turned his eyes out over the city and then towards the horizon. Something changed in his face and he rushed forwards before Amelia or Gandalf could grab and stop him. “Abandon your posts!” It was unlikely that anyone in the city could even hear him, but he didn’t seem to realize it and Amelia strode forwards, her patience snapped like a twig. “Flee! Flee for your lives!” With a yell, Amelia pulled her right arm back, with her thumb outside of her fist, and swung, hitting Denethor’s nose with a resounding crack and sending him stumbling backwards with a gasp.   
“Enough!” Amelia and Gandalf exclaimed at the same time. “I’ve had it with you!” Amelia cried as she was forcibly pulled back and away from Denethor.   
“Amelia!” Pippin exclaimed and Amelia shook herself out of Imrahil’s firm grip.   
“If you’d be so kind as to escort the dear Steward to his rooms,” She spat at the guards, who had approached swiftly with their weapons drawn, “I would be most grateful,” She glanced at Denethor with a hateful sneer, “My lord.” She turned her head towards Gandalf and blew a strand of brown hair out of her face. “There’s fighting to be done and so help me, I will not let him ruin our chances any more than they already have been.” 

Amelia pulled Aeglos out of yet another orc and whirled around, slicing open the throat of another, who had tried to surprise her from the back. She had attempted to keep count, so that she could compare with Legolas and Gimli once she reunited with them, but her focus was ruined one too many times in the end. After an hour of running and yelling, of blood and fighting and death, she had no longer a clue as to where in Minas Tirith she was and how long she had even been fighting for her life.   
She had grown used to how the city would groan rumble, how random buildings would suddenly erupt and explode as a burning boulder was slung into it from the avalanches outside the city, how the orcs snarled and how the men screamed and how it seemed that the city would come crashing down on her every time another house was reduced to a ruin. Nothing of that prepared her from when a steady chanting began to flow over Minas Tirith, coming from the orcs outside and inside of it at the same time. An awful groan of metal came from outside the main gate leading out to the Pelennor, where a battering ram had been steadily hammering away for a long while, though the gate was strong and had held. Amelia stiffened, nearly losing an eye to an arrow, and then made for the gate, since she had come quite close to it in her aimless battle through the streets and battlements of the city.   
“To the gate!” Something white rushed past her and she saw Gandalf, on Shadowfax, riding past her and galloping towards the gate. “Hurry!” Guards stormed past her and she caught glimpses of sweaty faces and blank eyes in the tumult. She hurried along, as resisting would end up with her getting trampled or shoved aside, and sprang through a ruined house, taking care not to get too close to the fires that burned there, and jumped. She fell and then, she was further down in the city, only a block away from the gate. She could hear the thumping and chanting of the orcs as if they stood beside her. The air was hot and heavy, with a foul smell of fire and blood.   
She skidded to a stop as the guardsmen clumped up against the large gate and then, the ground shook violently. The doors creaked, groaned and bent inwards as something large and heavy slammed into it, much more threatening than the battering ram that the orcs had been using for a good while by then.   
“What the hell is that?” Amelia shouted, but the men around her seemed just as frightened and uncertain as she was herself. “Gandalf?!” He glanced down at her from his horse, but she got no reply. Then she heard the chanting again and her eyes widened, her eyebrows knitting together above them. “Grond…” She breathed, horror filling her mind and panicked confusion, as to how she could have forgotten such a big part of the siege in the first place and not had the decency to warn a single soul.  
The gate boomed again and shards flew from it. Men around her winced and some stepped backwards, but Amelia only had thought for herself and her own stupidity.   
“Steady!” Gandalf called again, forceful and authoritative, readying his white staff. The gate boomed again, the chains on the inside of it rattling loudly, and men fell from the battlements above it, arrows sticking out of their knees and necks and faces. Several men readied their shields, adorned with the white tree, and Amelia blinked thrice, giving Aeglos a tentative swing, mindful of those she might hit with it. Then, the gate broke at another onslaught and the head of the battering ram stuck through as pieces of steel and wood flew. Amelia’s face twisted at the sight. It had to be at least four times her height, shaped like a wolf’s head and with a lit furnace in its mouth. “You are soldiers of Gondor!” Gandalf called as the battering ram was pulled back for a final push. The stomping and jeering from the orcs rose like a tidal wave. “No matter what comes through that gate, you will stand your ground!” Grond disappeared briefly and Amelia heard the man beside her let out a choked sob.   
Then it slammed into the gate with a crash and the doors were thrown open by force. Amelia heard a gleeful cheer coming from the other side of the wall, but her attention was divided as the bulk of the first wave of invaders rushed inwards, roaring and swinging heavy, spiked clubs. It was a pack of trolls, not many, but enough, armored in layer of plate and with eyes glowing hungrily beneath their helmets. Amelia didn’t know if she screamed, as the sound would have been deafened by those around her.   
“Run!” Cried several men desperately and threw their weapons away, but that only made them more tempting targets for the trolls as they swung their clubs in wide arches. With no other choice, Amelia threw herself to the ground as a troll barged towards her and its club swung through the empty air where she had been standing no more than a second ago. In the mess, Aeglos was thrown away from her and she scrambled desperately towards it as the troll continued to mindlessly swing at the air. Her hand closed around the hilt, but when she rolled and looked up, the sight of a raised club blocked out the sight of the sky above her.  
Gandalf chose that moment to ride towards her, taking advantage of the troll’s raised arms to bring Glamdring across its unprotected stomach and Amelia scrambled to her feet, sprinting away as the orc roared and fell, sending tremors throughout the ground. Still, no other men were as lucky as her. The trolls cut through them all easily, sending men flying and trampling those too slow to move, and behind them came a wave of orcs, their spears silhouetted even against the darkness behind them. With no other choice, Amelia turned and fled, blood running down her neck from a deep scrape on her jaw.   
“The city is breached!” Gandalf cried from up ahead, gesturing with his staff at the guardsmen running from the gate. Amelia shouted something foul at him, but it was lost in the noise and brought her no satisfaction in the end. “Fall back! Fall back to the second level!”  
Amelia rushed past him and through the smaller gate leading upwards and into the second ring of the city, scrambling for support at the wall and she spat and coughed from her mad dash. She got no true reprieve however, for the orcs and trolls were close behind even as they filled the first ring, pulling women and men alike into the streets and stomping on their faces, breaking their backs and stabbing them in those places where it would take the longest for them to die, but still without hope of survival. The shrieking cries of babies echoed through the night.   
“Fight! Fight to the last man!” Gandalf cried as he sent three orcs to their doom with Glamdring, Shadowfax kicking and biting. Men fell around him or were pushed up against the walls, the orcs tearing their soft throats out with their sharp teeth. The white stone was stained red. “Fight for your lives!” It was bestial and nowhere near glorious, as men struggled even as their arms or legs were separated from their bodies and skull bashed with hammers and maces.   
“Gandalf!” Amelia screamed, spit flying from her mouth as she ducked the dagger of an orc and kicked it in the groin, sending it staggering back into the raised spear of a guard captain. He twisted on his horse, still bashing and stabbing whatever he could reach with both staff and sword. “We can’t do this!” Gandalf easily pulled Pippin, who had been following him closely, up on his horse and stretched out his hand to her as she elbowed her way through the guards still streaming into the second level, fleeing the doomed first ring. Amelia’s head snapped backwards and she winced as the unmistakable shriek of a nazgûl filled her ears. Resisting the urge to throw away her sword and cover her ears, she clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes to slits, groaning in the back of her throat as the sped her pace towards Gandalf. The nazgûl had been circling the city hungrily for a while, but had stayed airborne and not landed in the city, except for when they picked men off the ramparts and threw them from deathly heights.   
“Quickly!” Gandalf urged as he grasped her hand and together they managed to haul her weight onto Shadowfax, who didn’t seem too affected by the extra weight in the least.   
“The fighting’s here!” She called as Gandalf spurred Shadowfax on.   
“And so it shall remain!” Gandalf exclaimed. “But our purpose takes us away from the gates and their captains shall hold it for as long as it can be held.” Shadowfax set into a gallop and Amelia leaned forwards, pressing herself over Pippin who was in the middle, and shielded him from most of the world outside. The last thing she wanted was for a flying brick or a stray blade to hit his unprotected head and deliver him to an untimely and unfortunate end. Shadowfax rounded a corner at a dizzying speed and continued upwards, sprinting through the third gate of the city. “Boromir, where did you last see him?”   
“Uh…” Amelia sucked in a gasp as Shadowfax jumped over a pile of dead men, dressed in poor clothes, lying out in the road for the flies. Then, he emerged out onto a small plateau, with no railing at the edge to keep them from falling down. “Up in the fourth ring, I think. We were separated-“ Shadowfax suddenly rose on his hindlegs and screamed angrily, kicking and throwing his white head back. Amelia and Pippin tumbled off, having been caught unawares at the sudden stop of the horse.   
Amelia grabbed Pippin’s shoulder with her left hand and searched for Aeglos with the other, for she had not sheathed it when she rode Shadowfax. She had been able to take of the heads of two orcs as she passed them and she had been taught in her many lessons not to sheathe a bloody sword.   
It was the witch-king of Angmar who had landed in front of Gandalf. Amelia knew it without a doubt, for her was bigger and darker and deeper than his eight other fellows and wore a metallic cross between a crown and a helmet. He managed to truly strike into the core of those who gazed upon him, magnificent in his terrible might and evil. His winged beast had landed close to them, blocking their otherwise empty path, since they had come away from the worst of the fighting, and snapped its strong jaws, a deep rumble coming from its scaly chest. It shrieked and Amelia whimpered, her hand finally finding her sword that had clattered away from her.   
“Go back to the abyss!” Gandalf swung his staff expertly in front of himself, still on his horse and in an immediate defensive position. “Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master!” The beast spread its dark wings and Amelia could see the sky through the thin membranes.   
“Do you not know death when you see it, old man?” The witch-king’s voice was like a knife scraping over a rock and Amelia heard Pippin’s choked scream distantly, as if through water. She whimpered again and scrambled backwards, fear making her jerky. “This is my hour!” The witch-king unsheathed his pale sword and held it high and it burned with a dark, fiery flame as dawn began to break after a long and bloody night.   
With the sound of a thunderclap, Gandalf’s staff shattered in his hands and he was thrown from Shadowfax at the force. Amelia painstakingly got to her feet and took a step backwards, her back colliding with a still-standing wall and her face pale.   
“Gandalf!” With a cry, Pippin pulled forth his own blade, but a shriek from the foul beast the witch-king sat upon made him freeze and stagger, enthralled in the horror of it.   
“You have failed.” The witch-king snarled as he got ever closer to where the white wizard lay on the ground. Amelia couldn’t see her face, but she didn’t care to in the moment, where her blood had gone cold and her hands shook so that she almost dropped Aeglos once again. “The world of Men will fall.” He raised his sword again and it stood out starkly against the sky behind it, despite how it seemed to be a piece of night itself.  
Then, the distant sound of a horn that Amelia had longed for throughout the long night that was about to end echoed over the Pelennor.


	29. Arise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Humanity has won its battle. Liberty now has a country.”  
> -Marquis de Lafayette

“That’s right, you bastards! You ugly sons of bitches!” Amelia screamed wildly as the witch-king set off on his foul beast, his attention diverted for the moment and the armies of Mordor turned their heads towards the sound of horns. “Eat it! Taste it! Taste it and die, you punkass jerkwads!”  
“Amelia!” Pippin yelled squeakily, his voice still in a high pitch from his brief confrontation with the witch-king.  
“And tell ‘em Amelia sent ya!”  
“Amelia!”  
“What?!” Amelia spun around, a crazed look in her eye, stemming from her huge relief and persisting fear for her life, since the sounds of battle could still be heard coming from all directions of the city.  
“Their attention is elsewhere!” Gandalf exclaimed intently, struggling to his feet with Pippin’s help. Shadowfax immediately approached him and Gandalf put a still hand on his smooth neck. “Now is the time for us to move.”  
“Right!” Amelia’s breathing came quickly, but neither Pippin or Gandalf commented on it as the three of them took their places of the back of Shadowfax, who bore it well, but Amelia expected it, due to the horse being born as the Lord of the Mearas. Gandalf would have had to truly impress him for Shadowfax to allow him to ride on his back.  
Shadowfax’s lineage showed, in that he had always been incredibly fast as well as intelligent, and he demonstrated it to his full capabilities as he made a beeline for the higher rings of the city, guardsmen streaming to and fro in the streets still.  
“Gandalf! Gandalf, what are those?” Pippin called as they rounded a corner of the fourth, with both Gandalf and Amelia yelling Boromir’s name and attempting to ask those they passed of his whereabouts, but they passed them too quickly to get a proper answer.  
“What?” Amelia shouted and looked in the direction that Pippin was pointing. He was gesturing in the direction of Mordor, but not at Mordor itself. On the horizon before it, through the dust that had risen from the fighting, lumpy, grey shapes as tall as watchtowers were wading forwards. She squinted. “The fuck?!”  
“I do not know what they might be, but they are too far away to affect us as of now.” Gandalf called back to them, his focus entirely on finding the Steward’s firstborn son.  
“They’re oliphaunts!” Amelia realized with a silly grin, despite the fact that the oliphaunts would be powerful adversaries against the rohirrim. “There was a song about those things in the books, too!”  
“What books?” Pippin called and Amelia shook her head, still smiling oddly to herself.  
“Nothing!” She was cut off as Shadowfax sprinted around a corner and nearly collided with a closing door, the one that led up and into the fourth level. “Whoa!”  
“Open the doors!” Gandalf commanded, his voice still strong, and his shout carried beyond the doors and they swung open once again. Shadowfax trotted through, holding his head high and clearly thinking himself above such petty men.  
“What’s happening?” Amelia called at the armored men below her and they didn’t meet her eye. “Why are you closing the gate?”  
“The lower rings are lost, your ladyship.” A man whose helmet told of his rank as a captain looked up, squaring his shoulders. “More lives would be saved if we sealed the gate and gave the people here more time to seek safety.”  
“Safety?!” Amelia exclaimed angrily, an ugly expression settling on her sweaty face. “Where the fuck is that? Are you gonna stick ‘em all in a cellar somewhere and hope for the best?” She was surprised when Gandalf didn’t interrupt her, but she saw that he was frowning at the captain as well. “People are dying down there and you’d leave them for the orcs? A good man once told me there is courage and honor to be found in men, but I sure don’t see it!” Amelia spat at him, Shadowfax moving into a trot at Gandalf’s urging. “Coward.” She hissed back at the captain, who turned away from her.  
“Shouldn’t we find Boromir?” Pippin asked suddenly and both Amelia and Gandalf startled at the question.  
“We should.” Amelia remarked slowly, looking back. “But so far, we’ve been through four rings and I can’t imagine he’s anywhere further from the fighting.”  
“You do know him best, my dear.” Gandalf thought aloud and Amelia cocked her head.  
“I do?” Gandalf mumbled something and Shadowfax slowed, seemingly annoyed with his riders, judging from the way he shook his white head. The intelligence of him was still odd to see, since it would be far too easy to assume him a simple horse with no keen mind to speak of. “Well, then…”  
“Mithrandir!” Both Amelia and Gandalf’s head perked up and towards the sound of his name being called, seeing a guard from the door elbowing his way towards them. There were still throngs og guards and a few townspeople running through the streets, so it took a while for him to reach them, but reach them he did. “I heard that you look for Lord Boromir.”  
“Do you know where he is?” Amelia asked quickly, cutting off Gandalf and Pippin.  
“Last I heard, he was manning the ballistae on the higher end of the second level,” The guard was cut off when another guard bumped into his shoulder. “Though I know not whether he has moved since then.”  
“How long ago?” Gandalf asked and the guard took a moment to answer. Amelia could see his forehead wrinkling beneath his helmet.  
“No more than an hour.”  
“A lot can happen in an hour.” Amelia glanced at Gandalf, who didn’t seem too worried, but not too hopeful either. In the distance, Amelia heard a colossal roar and the sound of horns being blown again. “Sounds like Rohan’s arrived.” She quipped as Gandalf turned Shadowfax and headed back the way they had come, charging back into the fray of frightened men and women.  
“Get back! They’re here!” The captain from before suddenly cried loudly and Shadowfax hurried backwards as guards suddenly spilled through the gate, with black shapes that jeered and snarled in a vigorous pursuit.  
“No!” Amelia protested as she slid off Shadowfax, with both Pippin and Gandalf calling after her, the former anxious and the latter tense. She didn’t get far before the doorway was shut, with a few guards still remaining on the other side, desperately screaming for help and gurgling when they met their ends. Then, the gate boomed as something large and heavy slammed into it from the other side and Amelia took an involuntary step backwards.  
“Amelia!” Behind her, she heard Pippin call for her again, but she ignored him.  
“Gandalf!” She heard another voice exclaim and she twisted her upper body around as she drew her sword, knowing that the doorway wouldn’t last long under the assault that the orcs put upon it.  
“Boromir.” Gandalf greeted him as he slid off Shadowfax himself, leaving the horse to its own devices. “It gladdens me to see you alive.”  
“The orcs are relentless.” Boromir replied darkly. His broad sword was slick with black blood and his brown hair was matted with it. “But new hope has arrived.”  
“So it would seem.”  
“Where the flying fuck have you fucking been?!” Amelia shouted as she stumbled out of the throng of guards pressed up against the doorway. Her heart beat fast and furiously in her chest, but after a long night of fighting, she was lacking the energy and patience to express relief instead of anger. Boromir had barely turned before she grabbed his shoulders tightly. “I’ve had a pretty messed up night, cause I got blown up, again, I’ve been fighting for my life for hours, I’ve had tea with the witch-king and I’ve ridden a kriffing horse through the entire city looking for you and then you’re right here right after I heard you were horsing around on the second level-“ The doorway boomed again and Amelia snarled at it.  
“I see you’re uninjured.” Boromir’s voice was a tad bit odd, but Amelia was too caught up in her own tirade to take particular notice. Amelia heard Gandalf mutter something in a tone that spoke of fond annoyance at absurdism, but he looked quite innocent when she narrowed her eyes at him. She hastily let go of Boromir’s shoulders and drew Aeglos again.  
“Well, I’m alive.” Amelia answered Boromir irritably, forcing herself to look straight ahead, even as she felt his eyes resting on her. “I’ve got a killer headache…” The doorway boomed again and Amelia heard it groan and begin to crack beneath the onslaught. “My legs feel like jelly, I’ve got cuts everywhere, blood in my hair and bruises that’ll last for weeks, but I can still fight.” She heard Pippin draw his short sword behind her, little more than a long dagger in her own hands, and Gandalf readied Glamdring with a determined look in his eyes.  
In the distance, a terrible sound suddenly came from the Pelennor and Amelia didn’t even register it as she stumbled, black spots dancing in her eyes. The shriek of the nazgûl had always struck fear and terror in the hearts of all who heard them, but somehow the effect was amplified when the shriek itself was filled with it. It was a death’s scream, one that seemed to last an eternity before it came to a stop. From the Pelennor, there was something that sounded like an explosion encased in metal and then, it was over again.  
Amelia’s head swam as she struggled to her feet, the hammering on the gate not having ceased and still strong and merciless.  
“What manner of villainy would make such a sound?” She heard Boromir ask beside her, but she couldn’t see him as a persistent throbbing thumped behind her eyes and she blinked.  
“That…” She gasped out, her memory unfocused in the wake of the scream. She forced her face in Boromir’s probably direction. “Was probably something you ought to celebrate.” She gasped out, rubbing her face and tightening her hand around her sword. “The witch-king…” Her eyes cleared a bit as she shook her head. “Dead and done.” She confirmed and readied her sword, taking the correct stance. She recognized the unmistakable grunt of a troll coming from the doorway.  
“No man can kill-“  
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t a man.” Amelia snapped as the doorway boomed and splinters flew. “A little focus, please?” Boromir’s jaw set and he turned fully towards the groaning doors, cutting an imposing figure.  
Suddenly, in less than a second, the temperature fell dramatically. Amelia’s eyes widened and a green glow came through the cracks appearing in the door. Goosebumps rose on her skin and she heard confused men utter their bewilderment around her.  
The army of ghosts ran through the door and through the guards behind it, the air filling with the horrified gasps and a few screams at the sight of the army of dead men. Amelia flinched as they passed through her, but she didn’t cry out or yell or try to flee in horror like those around her. Boromir whirled around, taking in their unexpected aid with disbelief etched on his pale face.  
“Wait, wait, stop!” Amelia called and spread her arms as the panic around her thickened, though the dead men scarcely noticed their presence. “They mean no harm.” She frowned and took back that statement. “Well, not to us- they’re, they’re friendlies!”  
“The ghosts of Dunharrow.” Gandalf remarked grimly, sheathing Glamdring once again. His face and eyes were dark. “So he walked the path.”  
“They have come to fulfil their oath?” Boromir asked skeptically and Amelia shuddered as the ghosts continued to sprint straight through them all. Boromir was pale and stoic, standing still as green ghosts ran through him.  
“Something like that.” Panicked and confused shouts rose from the white city as the green army washed over it like a wave, laying waste to all who served Mordor, but doing harm to no one who opposed it. “I always thought that was a major deus-ex-machina, but right now, I couldn’t care less about that.” Amelia took a deep breath and looked down at Aeglos, then wiped it clean on her pants. She looked up and took a deep breath, tasting dust and decay on the air, and shamelessly leaned against Boromir, breathing calmly and freely for the first time since darkness had fallen. Above her, the sun broke through the thick layer of clouds. 

“Anything?” Boromir called to her as she rested a finger on the neck of a man of Rohan. After a few seconds, she looked up and held a hand above her eyes. Despite him being quite close, she could only see the outline of Boromir through the thick dust in the air.  
“Nothing.” She called to him, disappointment filled her yet again as she stepped back from the body. Combing the battlefield outside the city for survivors was dirty, tiresome and unpleasant work, but it had to be done and Amelia had volunteered with a deep sigh.  
The short grass covering the plain had been trampled and the dirt kicked up by the hooves of horse and oliphaunts. Dead men and their various steeds lay strewn across the battlefield. The air was thick with dust and the smell of sweat.  
She trudged through the soft ground, wet with blood, with cumbersome steps, having to pull a bit on her feet to raise them. The ground was a bit muddy, despite no rain having come, but Amelia knew that it was wet with blood and not water. The stench of it was heavy.  
A strange sound came from the direction of Minas Tirith and Amelia turned to see the army of ghosts evaporate in the sunlight, the leader, who had borne a jagged crown and a torn cape, facing a man with a grey cloak and a long, silvery sword. At his side was a helmeted dwarf bearing a large axe and a tall elf with a braid in his hair and a quiver of arrows strapped to his back.  
“Hey!” Amelia called as the last remnants of a once mighty people faded away, leaving no trace that they had ever come down from the mountains in the first place. The man, the elf and the dwarf did not respond and she broke into a quick jog, heading towards them at a brisk pace. “Hey!” Legolas turned as the first and a calm smile spread on his beautiful face as he saw her, inclining his head as she caught up to him. Gimli exclaimed a hearty greeting as she clasped his shoulder with an exhausted grin, despite sporting a bleeding lip and a bruise over his bushy eyebrow. Aragorn bowed his head to her, a smile breaking out on his face as well. He seemed worn and tired, covered in sweat, grime and things that Amelia didn’t want to put a name to, but still he had a regal air about him.  
“Wonderful to see you’re still out and about.” Gimli clapped her back and she nodded down at him, smiling at having reunited with her friends. She had missed them keenly, but had endured it in silence and with no complaint.  
“It’s nice to have some good news after all this bullshit.” Amelia agreed and smiled at Legolas again. “Some night, huh?”  
“We heard the orcs had taken the city.” Aragorn’s voice was calm and steady, but Amelia had traveled with him for a while and knew him well. She recognized a subtle tone of both relief and weariness.  
“They certainly tried.” Amelia started to get back to checking the bodies strewn randomly around her, checking for any signs of life. “They got the lower rings. They were just about to nick another when you came running.” Amelia saw that Aragorn met the eyes of Gandalf behind her back and rolled her eyes slightly to herself when she was that Gandalf bowed his head deeply to Aragorn. She made her way away from her three friends, knowing that she still would have time for a better reunion and much merriment with them later.  
Amelia stepped around the body of a horse and spotted a man lying beneath the corpse of an orc. With some difficulty, due to the size of the orc, she pushed it off the man and made to crouch at his side, reaching out a hand to feel for a pulse. She never made it though, for she was interrupted when she heard a choked scream and she furiously looked for the source, scrambling to her feet and immediately grabbing for Aeglos. The plain of Pelennor was big and covered in lumpy bodies both big and small, from oliphaunts to haradhrim to orcs, so it wasn’t stupid to think that orcs still hid in some corners, waiting to take as many men and women with them before they died as well.  
It was a man who had screamed, but not out of pain or surprise, but shock and sorrow. Amelia’s eyes widened and she ran towards Éomer, who was sprinting towards something on the battlefield. When, he reached it, he pulled it into his lab and screamed his denial out over the plains, desperation, disbelief and grief warring for dominance on his reddened face.  
Éomer sobbed openly into his sister’s golden hair when Amelia came skidding to a stop beside him and fell to all fours, her heartbeat quickening at the sight of how pale and cold Éowyn’s fair face looked. She had always known her to be a cool person, distanced and regal in her persona, but a chilly façade was still far more lively that the cold look of death.  
Éomer clutched Éowyn ever tighter when Amelia tried to search for a pulse, seemingly not recognizing her or noticing anything around him in his mad grief. Finally, Amelia was able to rest two fingers on Éowyn’s icy neck and felt nothing. Searching frantically on the other side, Amelia’s mind went back to every interaction she had had with Éowyn, wondering whether any of them could have had a fatal effect on Éowyn’s destined battle with the witch-king of Angmar. Then, the barest hint of life made itself known and Amelia searched wildly around herself with her eyes.  
“Somebody!” She screamed, her voice low and raspy. “Over here! We’ve…” She coughed briefly. “We’ve got one! A healer, a horse, something!” A heavy hand came to rest on her shoulder and Aragorn knelt down beside her. Amelia leaned back to give him the space he needed and he pressed a hand to Éowyn’s forehead. Éomer finally looked up as he saw the ring of Barahir on Aragorn’s hand and his eyes met Aragorn’s for a second before Aragorn looked down at the white lady again.  
“She may yet live.” He said, though his voice was heavy and weighty with words and worries unsaid. “But she has gone to a dark place. She will need immediate attention.”  
Amelia got to her feet as she watched the two men lift Éowyn’s still body and call for a horse, with Éomer refused to let go of her and insisting on riding for the Houses of Healing personally. Aragorn wasn’t slow to acquiesce, seeing the hopelessness of arguing quickly, and he and Amelia watched as the horse kicked up a trail of dust as it galloped towards the white city towering above the Pelennor.  
“Well…” She coughed awkwardly into a fist as she looked uncertainly at Aragorn. “I guess it’s back to work?”


	30. Into the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The course of true love never did run smooth.”  
> -William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

“Frodo has passed beyond my sight.” Gandalf sighed, his wrinkled hands clasped on his back. He paced slowly, his bright eyes filled with something akin to worry. It was unnerving to see him in such a state, for even Amelia had come to rely on his calmness and cool mind, even if it was subconsciously. “The darkness is deepening.”   
Gimli was sitting quite casually on Denethor’s throne, at the foot of the dais where the king of Gondor ought to sit on the raised perch, smoking a long, black pipe that Amelia suspected he had acquired through less than legal means, since even a decent pouch of tobacco was difficult to find in the city. Many turned to pipeweed to help them calm their frayed nerves and pipes were in high demand, due to many people having been forced to flee their homes for other, safer parts of the city.   
Éomer, Boromir and Legolas stood side by side, Éomer with a hand on the hilt of his sword, Boromir with a grave face and Legolas with crossed arms. Gandalf was pacing and Aragorn stood a little ways off, deep in thought, whereas Amelia was standing on her own, unsure of whether she ought to be present at all. She hadn’t changed into something other than her hastily acquired brigandine, so she still had splatters of black blood in various places, including her hair, and she kept shuffling from one foot to another.   
“If Sauron had the ring, we would know it.” Amelia found herself agreeing with Aragorn, but the grave feeling in the air prevented her from saying anything.   
“It’s only a matter of time.” Amelia glared at Gandalf, whose mood seemed to have taken a turn for the worse since the battle of Pelennor. “He has suffered a defeat, yes, but… behind the walls of Mordor, our enemy is regrouping.” Loudly, Amelia cleared her throat, a clear request for attention. Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows at her and Gimli sent her a small smile from beneath his thick beard.   
“If I may inject my humble opinion...” She glanced at Aragorn, who inclined his head towards her. “Fuck Sauron. It’s his army we need to worry about.”  
“Any advice would be helpful.” Éomer added diplomatically and Gimli flashed her another grin.   
“Right, right… We won the battle of that field outside, right? Unless I missed something, we did. It’s… unlikely that Sauron will come back, begging for more, at least for now. We can’t just let him be, and no, I’m not budging on that, stop giving me that look.” Amelia returned Gimli’s unimpressed look with a deadpan face of her own. “All that’s left is to come to him.”   
“I fail to see the reasoning behind this.” Éomer injected, confusion written across his face.   
“That’s fair.” Amelia nodded to herself, missing Éomer’s discrete plea for an elaboration.   
“For Frodo.” Aragorn mumbled, his eyes lighting up as they met Amelia’s. She nodded, fully willing to step back and let them arrive at their own conclusions once again. “He needs time, time and safe passage to Mount doom, and we can give him that.” Aragorn turned towards the others fully, but his eyes were locked on Gandalf. “We march on the Black Gate.” A loud, wheezing cough came from Gimli as he promptly choked in his pipe and sputtered from his seat.   
“We cannot achieve victory through blunt force alone.” Boromir injected, his shoulders having risen involuntarily at the mere idea.   
“Not for ourselves, but we can give Frodo his chance. We can keep Sauron’s eye fixed on us.” Aragorn turned back towards Gandalf, speaking calmly, but intensely. “Keep him blind to all else that moves.”   
“A diversion.” Judging from Legolas’ serene smile, he approved of the plan, but Boromir looked like he had already found several problems with it.   
“Exactly.” Amelia clapped her hands together. “Lovely. Splendid. Only one problem.” She gave Boromir a look. “Denethor. He’s not just one problem, he’s several. I’m surprised he’s not attending this, actually.”  
“He is currently resting his head.” Boromir rebutted sharply.   
“Oh yeah. Getting knocked the living daylights out of you does nothing for the mind, which brings me to my next point. You saw how he behaved the first time the armies of darkness came knocking.” Amelia grimaced. “I doubt he’ll let Aragorn take command of so much as a scouting party, but we need him to be the figurehead- sorry mate.” She gave Aragorn a sympathetic look, one that was returned with a weary look of resignation. “Sauron’s already seen Denethor through the damned Palantír and I don’t think he was impressed. We have to keep his attention, but Denethor certainly won’t.”   
“We can hardly forbid his participation.” Aragorn reminded her and she sighed.   
“I’m well aware. I’ve got a couple of ideas, none of which are very good.”   
“A brief rundown?” Gimli shuffled in his seat, obviously preparing himself for something that was, in his mind, akin to a pleasant, but amusing afternoon’s tale. Amelia scratched her neck.   
“Mild poison, another knockout, some sort of distraction, keeping him completely in the dark about it, all out rebellion… Anything short of some pretty fat lies and sending him on a vacation in the south, I don’t know, but even if we did all of that rot, we’d only solve half of the problem. I hate to say this, but if he stays in power, this city is going to have to deal with a crisis of leadership, even if we manage to send the orcs packing.”   
“If you are suggesting what I think you are…” Boromir sounded vaguely threatening and she clenched her teeth.   
“I’m not suggesting, insinuating and implying anything. Not yet… but I have to make sure you all know what we’re dealing with. That we’re kind of in a no-win situation here and we have to get out of it fast.” Amelia frowned to herself, missing Boromir narrowing his eyes slightly in her direction. “I just can’t figure this out. I mean, I got us in this situation, right? It stands to reason that I should be able to get us out of it too.”  
“You don’t have to carry this burden alone.” Aragorn reminded her gently and she pressed her lips together.   
“I’ve been doing fine since Rivendell. So…” Amelia suddenly stopped, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “But… what if… Gandalf!” She snapped and he blinked expectantly at her. “Just roll with me for a bit… Cause I think I just had an idea and no, it won’t involve any assassinations if we play our cards right.”   
“Do tell.” Éomer nodded and Amelia began pacing erratically back and forth, waving her hands as a thousand thoughts played across her mind’s eye.  
“Back home, there’s this handy thing called the 25th Amendment, and it’s basically everyone telling their leader ‘you’re too nuts to be in charge’ and therefore throwing him out of office…”   
“How is that even possible?” Gimli asked skeptically while cocking an eyebrow.   
“Virtues of democracy. We got rid of the autocracy a long time ago, but I can tell you about that some other time. Point is, if our elected leader’s lost their marbles, they don’t automatically stay in power despite that.”  
“I find that difficult to believe.” Boromir injected and Amelia rolled her eyes, her quick footsteps echoing off the white marble floor.   
“Maybe that’s because we require competency from our leaders. We don’t just give them everything on a silver platter because of their family legacy. They have to prove themselves based on their own merit.” Amelia turned towards Aragorn again. “Couldn’t we pull the same shit here?”   
“As I understand it, your system of succession differs greatly from any one within Middle-Earth.” Aragorn answered seriously.   
“Right. You’re not the automatic heir yet. In fact…” Amelia turned around so quickly that she almost gave herself a whiplash. “If we did pull that off… the title of Steward… would pass…” She folded her hands like she was holding an invisible pistol and pointed them at Boromir. “To you.”   
To say that he looked uncomfortable with the proposal would be an understatement in the extreme.   
“The nerve of this is…” Éomer shook his head. “All of us present could be charged with conspiring against the ruling Stewards of Gondor.”  
“It is risky.” Aragorn agreed and Amelia turned her head at him, raising a thin eyebrow at him.   
“Riskier than marching on the Black Gate?” Barely suppressing a smirk, Amelia looked at Gandalf, who didn’t look like he approved one bit of her scheme either. “Look. It’s not honest. It’s not good, it’s not glorious and it’s not decent, but that’s life. I’m not forcing you into it and if you have something better, I’m more than willing to forget about my own plan and roll with yours, but since you’re suspiciously silent on that point…” She held up her palms for a few seconds before crossing her arms and jutting her hip. “And…” She gave Boromir an exasperated look. “Something’s telling me that you’ll be a tad bit more cooperative than your father.”   
“This is treachery.” Gimli growled in protest, any trace of mirth gone from both his face and his voice.   
“This is politics.” Amelia answered innocently.   
“Would the people of Gondor even approve of such a change of power?” Legolas asked with no emotion. Unlike everyone else, he seemed to be seriously considering it, something that surprised Amelia, given his parentage.   
“The people of Gondor are loyal to their liege. It is only recently that my father’s health and thoughts has begun to wane.” Boromir argued passionately and Amelia sighed.   
“’Abandon your posts!’” She screeched loudly. “’Flee! Flee for your lives!’” She balled up her fists as her patience ran out. “Wake the fuck up! The people of anywhere are loyal to prosperity and victory! If you wish to see the grand result of Denethor’s reign, take a look at the tree in the courtyard!” Her voice had risen to a shout. “Your dad may have been awesome once upon a time, but we have to attend to reality!”  
“Amelia Jones!” Gandalf bellowed and Amelia whirled around.   
“Screw you!” She shouted before she turned back to her designated target. “This is reality! If you’re still living in your little fantasy where the people would lick the Steward’s arse if he asked and you’re content to let him be then, well, tough luck!” As some part of her realized that she had gotten herself worked into a rage, another was only further enraged when Boromir’s face failed to show any sign of an actual reaction to her screaming at him. Exercising whatever amount of self-control she had left, she turned away from their assembled council and rushed down the hall, kicking open the doors to the courtyard with a wordless yell. The two guards assigned to open the door didn’t even have time to react before she was halfway across the courtyard, throwing curses at the withered tree in the center and considering nicking a torch to set it ablaze. 

“Son of a half-assed, idiotic, sent from hell piece of…” Amelia whacked mercilessly at the dummy, putting neither thought nor technique behind her swings. They were steered by anger, not purpose, but that didn’t stop them from effectively wrecking the defenseless dummy. As she brought down her blade again, the handle slipped and it clattered to the ground, whopping her right hand on the way. “Shit!”   
The training field was large, to accommodate the ever growing city guard and occasional militia, but mostly empty, due to most men of Minas Tirith having had their fill of fighting, preparing and training already. It boasted a decent view of the city and it was somewhat secluded, giving Amelia a convenient spot to work out her boiling temper without anyone else having to suffer too much in the process.   
“I have been told that my nephew has met his match at last.” A good-natured voice teased her across the yard and she looked up to see a black-haired fellow, clad in silvery armor with a swan on the chest. He was tall, but his face had fine, soft features. He was smiling at her without it being derogatory, but Amelia didn’t smile back.   
“Leave me alone.” She growled as she picked up her sword from the dirt. The area had been covered with a good amount of dirt, dust and gravel, clearly marking where men ought to and not to train, whether it be alone or in pairs or groups.   
“And so I shall, if you wish it, but I ask you to hear me out first, miss.” Amelia squinted suspiciously at him, but then threw her head back, indicating that he could approach without going the same way as the dummy. “Allow me to introduce myself…” He started as he walked up beside her. Amelia didn’t go back to attacking the dummy, but she didn’t sheathe her sword either. “I am Lord Imrahil of Dol Amroth, brother to Finduilas, the wife of the Steward.”  
“You’re the wife of the Steward?” Amelia exclaimed and Imrahil chuckled.   
“Ah, fortunately no. My dear sister married him some years ago, but sadly, she passed away.”  
“Hurray. Bravo. Get to the point.” Perhaps Amelia could have made an effort to make a better impression, but her patience was as thin as paper and her temper had barely had any time to cool off after she had snapped in the throne room.   
“Very well. I shall be blunt. My nephew and Mithrandir sent me here to mediate.”   
“Well, you can tell Boromir that I meant what I said and that he can go-”  
“Boromir did not send me.”  
“What?” Amelia had to admit that that pulled the rug out from under her.   
“I suppose in a way he did.” Imrahil seemed to think back on what had occurred. “After your little spat, I believe he went to talk to Faramir, and I must say, my youngest nephew seemed impressed with you. He then decided to send me, since he has not yet been permitted to leave the Houses of Healing.”   
“So, you’re their stand-in errand boy.” Amelia scoffed at him, immediately on the defensive.   
“Faramir also told me of another conversation he and you had had, one that Boromir was not involved in…” Amelia tensed up and her grip on her sword tightened.   
“That slimy little twat of a turd.” She spat, her knuckles turning white. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him and piss on his grave!”   
“Feel free. Before you do any of that business however, I’ll have to address the current issue, which is to clear up any potential misunderstandings.”   
“Then you better do it quickly, because I’m about two seconds away from pulling both your nephews backwards through a flugelhorn.”  
“Faramir seems to believe that, to be as blunt as I dare, your feelings for his brother goes beyond that of friendship, but you mask your feelings far too well for him to tell.”  
“Who can’t tell, the one who’s as dense as a brick or the one who’s prettier than half the elves I’ve seen?”   
“The former, I believe.” Imrahil smirked slightly and Amelia couldn’t decide whether she wanted to give him a hug or a punch. “I believe Faramir already told you that Boromir is brilliant on a battlefield, but… less so when it comes to the finer arts of…”  
“Anything, really.” Amelia finished with a shrug, sheathing Aeglos and leaning against the fence surrounding the training yard.   
“Quite so. What is still an unknown in this matter is not your emotions, but your intentions.”  
“My intentions?”   
“Yes, m’lady… intentions.” Imrahil folded his hands on his back. “What you intend to do about it.”  
“What I’m gonna do about it is none of your damn business. Keep your nose out of my affairs, unless you want to lose it.”   
“Very well, if that is all you wish to say about it…”  
“It is.”   
“I see.” Amelia caught a flash of something that could have been disappointment crossing Imrahil’s highborn face, but it was gone quickly after she had seen it, replaced with a diplomatic smile instead. “Now then, I believe I was sent to negotiate, rather than…”  
“Doing exactly the opposite.”  
“Precisely. I must admit, I have been doing a rather poor job of it so far.”  
“Yes.”   
“But alas, I fear I cannot leave you just yet.” Amelia groaned. “I know, but take heart, for I shall leave you to your thoughts soon enough. I only ask one thing of you, that you put yourself in Boromir’s position, so that you might understand his personal view.” Amelia glared at Imrahil and crossed her arms.   
“Do you know what I proposed?”  
“All too well, and I must say, it was not a wholly poor proposal.”   
“Wait, what?” Amelia blinked, once again surprised by the man.   
“I approve of the concept, though it pains me that it has ever been considered for a man that I still consider family. My brother-in-law has greatness in his heart, but his mind has been addled by forces out of our control for too long for him to recover.”   
“So you… don’t think that it’d be treason?”   
“Oh, it would most certainly be treason, but…” He winked at her, grinning once again. “Sometimes, a bit of treason may be needed.” Then, he sighed wistfully. “I suppose it’s a moot point by now in any event. I doubt the dear Steward would go quietly.”  
“That’s precisely the point! If they’d all just listened, then…” Amelia moaned and put her head in her hands. “Moot point. Got it.” She crossed her arms once again and craned back her neck, until the blue sky was all that she could see. “Fine. I’ll talk to Boromir. But…” She paused threateningly. “Faramir had better say his goodbyes, because I will have my revenge for this.”   
“I shall relay the message.” Imrahil straightened his back, smacked his feet together and bowed to her. “Once again, a good day to you.”   
Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose as he left her alone, uneasiness already tightening her throat and, once again, she wished that she had never gotten involved with Middle-Earth to begin with. 

Amelia knocked, three, sharp knocks, on Boromir’s door with the vague feeling of nausea roiling in her stomach.  
“Enter.” A voice called, but to her ears, it didn’t seem to be Boromir’s voice in his chambers. Reluctantly, she twisted the knob and pushed on the door, far more gently than she usually did.   
Aragorn stood on the balcony along with Boromir, the both of them looking like they carried the weight of the world on their shoulders and had experience with the sensation. Amelia took a step inside, but kept a hand resting on the open door. “Am I interrupting…”  
“Quite the opposite.” Aragorn answered nonchalantly, stepping inside and brushing past her at a casual pace. “I was just leaving.”  
“Right.” Amelia nodded and stepped aside, letting him close the door behind him. She gave Boromir’s back an uncertain look. He had given no indication that he had noticed her presence, but she knew him too well to be fooled. He had both of his arms resting on the carved railing and he didn’t hold his head as high as he usually did. Amelia wrung her hands as she cautiously approached, the stretching silence bordering on uncomfortable. “If you thought I was ‘confounding’ or ‘frustrating’, you could’ve at least done me the courtesy of telling me.” Her voice was sadder than she had meant it to be, but when she tried to summon her previous anger, all she could manage was a sharp pang of weak annoyance.  
“I doubt you would have listened to me.” Boromir’s voice was eerily unemotional. “You rarely do.” Amelia bit her lip as she folded her hands and rested her forearms on the railing. She stood on Boromir’s left side and carefully avoided looking at him, instead turning her eyes towards the horizon, where the dark clouds over Mordor still boiled and boomed in the distance.   
“Maybe I should.” Amelia admitted, studying her nails. “I mean, things didn’t turn out too well back there.” He gave her no answer and Amelia gulped, attempting to swallow her nervousness. “I’m scared, Boromir.” The admission wounded her pride, but she shoved it aside, soldiering onwards. “And I know that doesn’t justify anything, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m scared and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m scared of the orcs, I’m scared of your father, I’m scared of dying and I’m scared of being blamed. We are so friggin’ close to losing all of this and it’s all because I couldn’t stay put. I know I’m to blame, but I’m terrified that you’ll all decide to agree with me.” She finally glanced at him and their eyes met briefly before she looked away again. “I’m sorry that I’m scared. I’m sorry that I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I’m just a sorry one in general.” She bit her lip and turned away from the railing, feeling restless once again, but without it being paired with her earlier aggression. She leaned against the doorway, set into the wall separating his chambers from his balcony, crossing her arms and pulling at the collar of her brigandine.   
“I do not understand what you wish for me to say, Amelia.” Frustration seeped into Boromir’s voice and Amelia gave a helpless shrug, not turning to look at him.   
“Nothing. Just… listen. I… suck at this.” She sighed and rubbed her face. “You… mean so much now. To me… and I don’t know…” She groaned. “God, I’m messed up. I love my brothers and I love my cat and my home and my family, but you… Somehow, I care just as much for you as I do for them, just… differently, not at all in the same way, and I can’t handle it. This… it’s raw and painful and it’s tearing me apart.” She smiled a watery smile to herself and scoffed softly. “I doubt this is what your uncle intended when he told me to tell you how I felt.” Her smile fell, leaving her drained and vulnerable and too tired to care. She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder and she looked up at Boromir’s highborn face, searching his eyes like she had done many times before. She saw worry, worry and exhaustion, emotions that she could and could not name, both in his eyes and his face and his posture, but she adamantly insisted to herself, with whatever inner strength she still had, that it didn’t matter. “When this is over, I’ll either be dead or out of your hair. Permanently. Either way…” She found herself at a loss for words, but realized that, perhaps, she had said enough as it was.   
Wordlessly, as if they had discussed it beforehand, they moved at the same time as Boromir enveloped her in his arms and she flattened her palms against his back, neither of them speaking as they simply held each other.  
When Amelia left his chambers, forcing herself to pull away from him and walk away, she noted with bitter satisfaction that she hadn’t shed as much as a tear while in his presence.


	31. Dusk and Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Breathe. Let go. And remind yourself that this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure.”   
> -Oprah Winfrey

“Lady Éowyn. Where is she?” Amelia asked the elderly woman she had caught the elbow of. She was dressed in the grey and blue robes of a healer. She didn’t answer Amelia’s inquiry, but gestured in the direction of a plateau, where several ailing soldiers were treated at the same time. Then she hurried onwards, called to her next patient before Amelia got to thank her. Instead, she made for the racks of beds, little more than sheets laid out on the stone, where she could see Aragorn crouching beside a blonde woman, whose brother sat anxiously beside her.   
A cough from her side distracted her and she turned with raised eyebrows, breaking into a smile when she saw an exhausted hobbit resting on the edge of the dais.   
“Merry!” She embraced him tightly, pulling back quickly when he grunted, and she looked at his arm, wrapped in bandages. “Sorry. Forgot.”   
“Oh, I-I don’t mind.” Merry mumbled hoarsely, smiling weakly at her. Amelia returned his smile with a gentle one of her own, but then she bumped his shoulder.   
“Witch-king killer. You’re fancy bits now.”   
“Oh, I believe that honor goes to Lady Éowyn.” Merry glanced at Éowyn, still and unmoving a little ways away from them and Amelia hummed.   
“Speaking of which, I should probably go visit. Think you’ll manage?” Merry nodded weakly and, sending him one last, gentle smile, she walked towards Éowyn, whose brother was crouching beside her.   
Neither Éomer, Aragorn nor Éowyn acknowledged her as she crouched down beside Éomer. Aragorn pressed a wet cloth to Éowyn’s forehead and closed his eyes, mumbling words that Amelia couldn’t make sense of or understand. Instead of interrupting, she sat in silence, waiting for Éowyn to wake. Her left sleeve had been pulled up, exposing fresh, black scars forming a pattern on it. Amelia looked away from the arm, not wishing to look at it any longer than necessary.   
Aragorn slid his hand gently away from Éowyn’s forehead, still caught up in his mutterings, and rested it on the side of her head as he picked the cloth off of her with the other.   
Éowyn’s chainmail, that she had yet to be changed out of, rattled sharply as she drew in a deep breath through her nose, her eyelids fluttering. Amelia glanced at Éomer, whose eyes were fixed on Éowyn with tentative hope, and Amelia rose again as Éowyn’s eyes opened slightly. She looked up at Aragorn and before Amelia turned away, she saw a weak expression of disbelief cross Éowyn’s face.   
She stepped down from the plateau and rolled her shoulders, but then she frowned when she heard two healers nearby caught up in a rapt discussion not long away, both of them staring at Aragorn with awe. She heard them repeat an old verse and then it spread as she passed several beds. 

When the black breath blows  
and death's shadow grows  
and all lights pass,  
come athelas! come athelas!  
Life to the dying  
In the king's hand lying! 

Amelia looked over her shoulder as she heard the full verse and cocked her heard at Aragorn, who looked humble and approachable as he knelt by Éowyn’s bedside, continuing his administrations, and yet every inch a king. 

“Hold him down.” The main physician ordered Amelia as she gripped the foot of the unconscious man, who lay on a repurposed dining table in an improvised infirmary, in a ruined house in the fourth ring of the city. It was filthy, the air heavy with the stink of blood, bile and smoke, and the hygiene in the place was horrendous, with the healers and assistants cleaning the tools in a shared bucket of lukewarm water. Being treated in there was potentially more hazardous for the health than going without treatment entirely, but even so, it was filled to the brim, with grown men, women and small children even, who cried out for their mothers no matter their age. While the most honorable had been moved to the true places of healing in the city, those more unfortunate than them were left to the hastily set up hospices around the city, being tended by old wives and apprentices. Amelia had figured that she could do more good where the conditions were the worst than the places where sufficient healers and resources already were.  
“Last course of action?” Amelia huffed as she rolled up her sleeves, grabbing one arm of the man while an assistant, with weary eyes and a thin face, pressed the other one down into the table.   
“Only course of action.” The physician, a tall, thin woman with black hair and grey eyes, grit her teeth, positioning the crude saw on the man’s ankle. “The rot’s already set in.” The man’s foot smelled foul and had swelled, lacerations crossing it like a web. When peeled back, the flesh revealed fat, writhing maggots and the smelling of decay. It was dead, like a plant that had gone without water and sun for too long. The man’s skin was burning with fever and the only movement he made when the metal of the saw touched his foot was that of his breaths. Then, the physician, in long, hard strokes, began to move it and his eyes screwed shot as a wail tore itself free of his throat and a spasm went through his body, like a fish caught on dry land. As his struggling grew worse, particularly when the saw reached the bone, Amelia put her entire weight on his torso, pressing it downwards and doing her best not to look in the direction of the legs. Blood, fresh and red, sprayed from the stump and the man, though not fully conscious, both from exhaustion, fever and the effect of some herb that had been forced down his throat, sobbed, tears streaming down his stubbled cheeks.  
“Bind it tightly.” The physician barked at the assistant, who moved to her side to bind the bleeding remains of the leg. “Otherwise, he’ll bleed out or catch an infection.” They had long since run out of proper bandages, and had resorted to using any sort of clean cloth. Strips of curtains, dresses, nightshirts and tablecloths, none were turned away. Citizens had been ordered to hand over any herbal remedies, tools and medicines that they possessed without candid reason. Amelia saw dozens of good people, most clad in dented armor, die in a handful of hours, due to injuries that would have been curable in any hospital in her own world. Infections and fevers, open wounds and coughs, all could kill in a world without the proper care. Occasionally, Amelia would have been able to offer her own opinion on such matters, such as proper sanitization, hygiene and symptoms that wouldn’t have been noticeable to those who failed to look for them, but to her frustration, her advice was often disregarded as inexperience or sheer idiocy.   
Finally, the man’s wild struggling ceased and he simply wept, his fingers flexing weakly, and the healers wiped their hands as clean of blood as they could, muttering to each other as they hurried onwards to the next patient, an elderly, but heavily pregnant woman who had taken a terrible blow to the back.   
Catching a breath, Amelia leaned against the remains of a crumbling wall of white bricks. The hospital had been placed in the house belonging to a large family, of which all the members had been confirmed to have perished, either in battle, illness or simple bad luck, and the cruder cases were on the upper floor of the house. The entire façade had been smashed to rubble, leaving it completely open out onto the street.  
“Miss Amelia?” She turned around while wiping her right cheekbone with the back of her hand, unintentionally smearing a fresh coating of blood across it.   
“Who’s asking?” She spoke loudly, for she couldn’t see who had said her name in the chaotic throng of moaning patients, physicians, healers and assistants hurrying to and fro and the lighting was less than ideal, the time being late in the day before the march would take place.   
“Miss!” A guard hurried towards her, sporting a blooming bruise covering half his face, as he held up the back of his hand against his mouth, as if to ward off some poisonous vapor. “The Lords Legolas and Gimly request your presence at your earliest convenience.” Amelia raised an eyebrow at him, but then shrugged.   
“Alright then. Run along and tell them I’ll be there in some hours or so. I’m a bit busy here.”   
However, Amelia quickly realized that whatever help she could provide was minimal and easily replaced, since nothing of it was useful advice that wouldn’t be ignored. The healers had precious little patience left and thus a large number of injuries, pretty much anything worse than an easily treatable flesh wound, was cured with an amputation.   
Hurrying out of the makeshift hospice, Amelia headed towards the upper rings of the city at a brisk pace in the rapidly fading daylight. 

She found Legolas and Gimli in the throne room, alone, excepting the guards flanking the great door leading out into the courtyard. They were both bruised and one had a bloody bandage covering his eye, but Amelia suspected that they had distinguished themselves somehow, seeing as they were given as easy posting instead of assisting the healers or keeping watch on the remains of the ramparts.   
Gimli had a large bruise blooming on his forehead, yet Legolas looked as flawless as ever. Gimli was lounging in Denethor’s seat, smoking, and Legolas stood beside him, engaged in a mumbled, casual conversation that stopped when Amelia approached.   
“Lady Amelia,” She scowled at Legolas’ formal addressing of her. “It gladdens me to see you again.”  
“You wanted to talk?” Amelia crossed her arms, never one for beating around the bush. Legolas gave her a serene smile and Gimli chuckled to himself, earning a glare from Amelia.  
“Very much so. It has been some time since our last conversation in casual company.”   
“Yeah, I suppose.” Amelia shrugged, still not seeing the actual purpose of their conversation.   
“It was my wish to ask you away from the hospitals and the healers.” Legolas cocked his fair head, studying her with eyes that seemed too old for his youthful face. “From what I have gathered, you have been keeping busy since the battle.” Amelia grunted and gave him a sharp nod.   
“Not preparing for the last battle cost a lot of lives.” She sent a vehement thought at Denethor. “Improvement on that front might not cause things to go the same way next time.”   
“And thus, you bear the burden of a hundred lives on your shoulders.” Legolas gently admonished her.   
“It’s easier than one single life, believe it or not.” Amelia looked away, exhaling through her nose. “I suppose that, since we made here in one piece, I can stop hovering over Boromir. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need a nanny.”   
“And what about a confidante?” Amelia snorted at the suggestion.   
“I’m all for being his friend, Legolas, but it’s not that easy. I’m going home, sooner or later. I’m not saying I’ll freeze myself off, but…” She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat and shifted on her feet. “It’s not easy.”  
“It seems that the lives of mortals are doomed to be so.” Legolas nodded to himself, his eyes far away and yet still attentive and alert.   
“You don’t need to tell me twice.” Amelia paused, trailing off before she broke the silence yet again. “So… we’re marching on the Black Gate.”  
“Aye, that we are.” Gimli sent her a good-natured smile, one that she was happy to return. Burly as he was, she would quickly have called him one of the few friends she had.   
“Seems unreal, that it’ll all be ending so soon, doesn’t it?” She frowned at herself. “That came out wrong. I mean… it’s been, what, five, six months since I arrived in Rivendell? Now, everything’ll be over tomorrow. Kind of crazy to think about.”   
“It shall be good to have this done and dealt with.” Gimli exclaimed enthusiastically, blowing a writhing ring of smoke.   
“’Course, there’s that…” Amelia drawled, but then shook herself out of her hesitancy to speak her mind. “Really, I should be bouncing for joy. It won’t be long before I go home now.” She cocked her head thoughtfully. “It’s gonna be weird, seeing everyone again. Friends, family… Weird. Either, they’ll scream and cry and demand to know where I’ve been or they won’t even have noticed I was gone. Not sure which is better.”  
“You’ve changed. For better or for worse.” Legolas stated bluntly and Amelia found herself agreeing with him rather quickly.   
“Yeah, and I’ve got the scars to show for it. I mean, that wicked one on my shoulder from that arrow at Amon Hen? And I’ve got several that I have no idea where they come from.” She sobered. “And I won’t be able to explain any of it. They’ll throw me in an asylum for sure if I try.” She sighed inaudibly to herself. “I’m so much more now than I ever could have been back there… and no one will ever know.”   
“We will know. And we will remember.”   
“So will I. I just wish… nah. It’s just crazy… All these things and soon, I’ll probably just have convinced myself someone spiked my food or something.” There was a heavy silence.   
“Do you regret it, then? Any of it?”   
“No.” Amelia said firmly, shaking her head. “I’m not the type for regrets. I’m that dumb type who sticks by her decisions, even if she knows they were stupid. I’m stubborn that way.”  
“That seems very…”  
“Me. It seems very ‘me’, doesn’t it?” Amelia sent Legolas a grin, one he returned with a serene smile. She began to see the true purpose of his calling her for a mere conversation, but didn’t bring it up. “Never mind about that. What happens, happens.” Her mouth curled upwards, wistful. “It has been quite a ride though, hasn’t it?”   
“Aye, that it has, lass.” Gimli agreed with a nod, gesturing at her with his pipe, smoke wreathed around his head. “That it has indeed.” 

Amelia got, to her own surprise, more than one offer of a change of clothes, as well as armor, despite such luxuries being scarce so soon after a battle of any kind. She declined as gracefully as she could, but grew firm when it was insisted upon. She failed to understand why such things would be wasted upon her, of all people, but could see their point of view after she realized that it was most likely an attempt to make her somewhat presentable, seeing as it was probable that she would ride with people of stature in the trek to Mordor. Even battered and bruised as they were, the people of Gondor still had great respect for their rulers, something that Amelia could understand, even though she didn’t approve of it.   
She kept her filthy clothes, her brigandine and her sword, with her ring being the cleanest part of her. She winced in sympathy when she heard that Aragorn had not been given a choice in the matter, having been subjected to a complete overhaul of his look, and she grit her teeth and clenched her fists when she heard that Denethor had been so bold as to demand it. Her proposal of a coup had been all but forgotten, and yet it seemed as if the Steward had somehow become irrelevant in the grander scheme of things. Amelia heard it in the voices of the people when she visited the hospice again, their desperate hope as they whispered of the descendants of Númenor returning, of a crownless king come to reclaim his rightful place, of his hands of healing and a white tree in bloom. The rumors grew wilder with each passing hour, and yet Amelia couldn’t begrudge them seizing all the hope that they could, not after what she had seen what they were up against. The Steward of Gondor had been forgotten, something that Amelia sorely wished she could have told him personally, and yet, it seemed as if he would still make all attempts to convince the world that it was not so, even fight to realize that fantasy of his.   
His proclamation, made from his chambers and declared by reluctant messengers, that he had begrudgingly accepted their foolhardy plan of an outright attack, something that Amelia suspected came from no small amount of coercion from Boromir and Imrahil, and that he would be the one to lead the charge made Amelia laugh so loudly that a flock of crows flew up from their perches on the rooftops. After an hour of giggling to herself and having been explained that it was no joke of poor taste, she was tempted to march into Denethor’s chamber and throw him out the carved window, regardless of the consequences, obstacles or political ramifications.   
His declaration turned out to not only seem humorous to her, but to the majority of the city. Since she had found out by hearing a crier in the streets while working in the hospice, it meant that the news spread like a wildfire, and was regarded as either idiocy or a poor attempt to lighten the strained mood in the city. It seemed that very few people actually knew what had happened to Denethor, and even fewer seemed to care. Amelia even got a few mumblings of congratulations regarding her rather public confrontation with the Steward during the battle, and a small girl handed her some flowers she had found growing behind her ruined house, most of them weeds, and Amelia got the strange feeling that perhaps her name wasn’t as much of a secret as she would have liked, seeing as she was recognized more often than not while out and about in the city.  
That, of course, did not mean that Denethor’s insistence didn’t worry her, but it did put a comforting dampener on the slight feel of panic that had begun spreading in her chest with each hour that Denethor remained as solidified in his power as he was, despite his obvious loss of popularity and political support.

Riding out of the city was harder than Amelia thought it would be.   
Led by Denethor, outfitted in silvery armor with Gondor’s sigil displayed on both his chest and shoulders, the long procession rode out of the city, rohirrim riding alongside the men of Gondor, soldiers and knights on even foot with hastily trained militia and what amounted to elderly men with curved knives and boiled leather for armor. Aragorn rode behind him, something that even Denethor was not stupid enough to protest against, looking every inch a king, with his hair pulled back, the white tree bright against its dark background on his chest and his red cloak fastened with the silvery heads of serpents, their eyes green gemstones that shone in the light of the dawn.   
They rode at first light and Amelia doubted that any of them had gotten more than a few, restless hours of sleep the night before. Beside Boromir, Legolas, Aragorn, Imrahil and Denethor, all clad finely, she looked common and out of place, but she cared not for the looks and opinions of others. She might have once, but no longer.   
The horses were restless, reflecting the moods of their riders. Most of the armor worn had clumsily covered dents or even missing parts. Some lacked sabatons, others helmets, caps and others their pauldrons. Still, there was something in the air, or perhaps it was the solemn resignation on the faces of those riding out of the white city, that gave the procession the appearance of a true army with nothing left to lose. Instead of a ragged band of farmers with pitchforks and bakers with knives, they were all the men of the west.   
Amelia saw Aragorn look back over his shoulder when he rode out of the gate, right after Denethor, and she gave him a rueful smile, one that she realized he didn’t see, since he wasn’t looking at her at all. His bright eyes rested on the white walls behind him, the houses razed by fire and towers collapsed on themselves, bricks littering the streets and hospitals still overflowing, and then, he turned away, fastening his eyes on the glow in the east.   
When Amelia turned back to look on Minas Tirith, exhaustion weighing on her eyelids, her collar chafing at her neck and her fingers awkwardly holding the reins of her horse, she saw two white cities. One was a derelict ruin, where old lords sat in dusty halls, mourning the dead while ignoring the living, with only the ghostly remains of a once proud people living amidst greying walls of stone. The other was a fierce guardian, a tall tower shining like a jewel against the dark morning sky, making the snow on the mountains behind her seem grey in comparison with her beauty and stark whiteness, a place where bells tolled in gladness and the spirit of the people behind the walls was stout and unbroken.   
Turning her horse away and kicking the animal into a trot, Amelia followed Isildur’s Heir towards the black mountains of Mordor.


	32. Last of the Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new.”   
> -Steve Jobs

Amelia glanced up at the dark clouds above her, following the faint, dark outlines of the flying beasts silhouetted against them with weary eyes.   
“They’ve been following us for hours.” Her friend, Legolas, spoke beside her, from his own horse. He wasn’t looking up at the beasts, but Amelia knew that he most likely saw them even better than she did. “They are watching us.”  
“Are you surprised?” Amelia asked dryly, in a low voice. The tension in the air made people lower their voices and their eyes dart around the barren landscape. “We may not be led by him…” She sent a dark look at Denethor’s back. “But we’ve got Aragorn. Elessar. Isildur’s Heir. And the west united under one banner.” She winced as shrill trumpets echoed among the hills. “And pardon me for saying so, but the dear Steward hasn’t exactly been discrete about our approach.”  
“Discretion seems a strange method of drawing attention.” Legolas thought aloud and Amelia gave him a short, tense smile, but if faded quickly.   
“Right, right. Diversion and all.” She glanced up at the nazgûl again, feeling a slight chill run down her spine and doing her best to ignore it. “Still makes me queasy, what with their circling around like friggin’ vultures or something.” She shook her head with a grimace, turning her eyes away from them. They had made to attempts to attack, not the slightest hint of aggression, not a single screech, but their distant, constant presence was all it took for them to inspire apprehension, tension and fear.   
The fields of the Pelennor had given way to soft hills, covered in yellow grass and patches of dirty rocks and dry moss. Whatever trees appeared were small, twisted and some even sickly, but Amelia wasn’t surprised to see that was the case, seeing as they were riding on the most direct route to Mordor. Most people from Ithilien and Gondor avoided that route at all costs, making it a popular one for the forces of the enemy to choose, and yet they had encountered no orcs, no trolls or scouts, save for the nazgûl above them. Excepting the blaring trumpets and the heralds proclaiming the might of Gondor and challenges towards Mordor and its master, the silence their procession cut through was thick and heavy, feeling like a physical burden to ignore and overcome.   
Amelia threw her head, as if a fly was buzzing at her ear, but she couldn’t shake off the feeling that she had forgotten a grave detail that would prove to have greater consequences than what could be fixed by her alone. It was, by then, a feeling she was familiar with, but that didn’t lighten the tight feeling of annoyance and tension in her stomach. Her horse threw her head back sometimes, seemingly startled by some threat either imagined or unable to be seen by the human eye. When she looked back, she could see the apprehension etched on the faces of the men she could make out in the bad lighting. The sun had broken through the layer of dark clouds above the Pelennor following their victory, but the closer they got to Mordor, the thicker the cover of clouds above them became. Those experienced in the ways of the darker forces of Middle-Earth were those presenting themselves as leaders, mighty veterans and men deserving of respect, and some of the few who were able to mask their trepidation beneath a stiff mask of indifference. Amelia doubted they there was a man in the procession who didn’t feel nervous, but for the time being, she kept her thoughts to herself, resorting to scowling at the nazgûl, the Steward of Gondor and anyone who tried to initiate a conversation instead of letting her initiate it herself. After her travels with the Fellowship, she had perfected her glares.   
Yet, no matter how much she scowled and snapped, glared and growled, she couldn’t remember what it was that she had forgotten. Her best guess was a minor detail from the books, mentioned on a single page, but important in the grand scheme of things.   
She was momentarily shaken out of her speculations when the faint path sloped downwards, forcing her to lean back in her saddle. She winced at the sore feeling in her thighs, but tried to hide it the best she could.   
“We still have a ways to go.” Boromir had slowed his horse to ride on her left and she sent him a dark look. Contrary to the others she had subjected to her scowls, he didn’t seem fazed in the least.   
“Thank you, dorf, for all your moral support. I feel real better now.” He gave her an unimpressed look, one that she returned with a challenging one of her own, raising an eyebrow at him. He drew in a breath, making a move to answer her, but she cut him off in a mumble, not wanting to break the silence around them. “Don’t even start, I’m unto you.” She squinted irritably at a boulder they passed, as if her gaze could split it alone. “I feel like I’ve forgotten something.”   
“I fear it is too late to turn back.” Amelia blinked at Boromir in shock and noticed that he was amused, beneath his mask of stoic leadership. Anyone other than those closest to him would have missed it completely, but she had gotten to know him well and knew where to look for the small indicators of his mood. A corner of her mouth inched upwards briefly, but she still frowned.  
“Not like that, wonderboy. Something…” She threw her head irritably once more. “Important.” Boromir’s eyebrows knitted slightly together as he looked at her. “Some detail that’s gonna come back to bite me if I don’t remember.” She gave him a pointed look. “So shove off and let me think. Otherwise, it’s both of our asses on the line, plus every ass in this teensy-weensy little line of ours.” She pointed with a thumb over her shoulder, towards the procession of thousands of armored riders and a few unfortunate footsoldiers, since there were more men than horses for them all to ride. She jumped in her saddle as the trumpets blared again and she took a deep breath, pulling the reins of her horse to get it to calm down as well. “Damn it!”   
She rode on in silence for what felt like hours, having only the sun and the somewhat systematic sounds of the trumpets to help her keep track of the passing time. Despite her being somewhat practiced in it after her travels, riding still made her sore and stiff, not to speak of the inner discomfort she got as soon as she saw the animals saddled and awaiting their riders.   
Amelia turned her attention back to her attempts at remembering whatever she had forgotten, but the thought darted away from her every time she came close to it. It was enough to cause a twitch in her eye and tension in her shoulders, but she tried her best to maintain a neutral expression for the sake of morale.   
She glanced at Aragorns back, then at Denethors, and closed her eyes, biting her lip. She considered striking up another bickering conversation, but decided against it.   
She frowned as she looked at the orange glow to the east, straight ahead of the army marching out of Gondor, and she felt anger bubbling in her gut. Then, she promised and assured herself that one detail couldn’t make that great of a difference in the end, since she was going to fight with every inch of her soul to make sure victory was assured regardless.

Amelia stepped out of her tent, walking directly through the flaps, and stretched in the cool air, feeling it wash over her as she craned her head back to look at the stars. She was still in her riding clothes, but had pulled a shabby shawl, offered kindly to her by a man whose name she promised herself to learn when the time was available, around her shoulders to shield against the cold, since it was only late march yet.   
After a few steps, she stopped short, realizing that the man grooming a horse a few feet away was one that she had seen before.   
Gríma had certainly changed since the last time she had seen him, reduced to a shivering wretch of a being. His dark hair was still greasy and unkempt, but held away from his face with a humble hairclip, and his dark robes seemed to have been washed and mended.   
Amelia studied him for a moment, considering approaching him. He still looked as though he lived on the bottom of the social ladder, but a newfound purpose was in his movements and his eyes were clear. Amelia nodded to herself, content with knowing that, though it wouldn’t be easy for him, he could still make something better of himself, and turned away. As she headed in the opposite direction of him, she shuddered a bit, due to the cold night air, and looked up at the dark sky.   
Above her, the stars were veiled by a thick layer of clouds. The closer they got to Mordor, the thicker the layer of fume, smoke and cloud above them were and thus, the darker it constantly got, even in high noon. Their army had had some difficulty setting up their tents, since the earth was hard and unwelcoming. The night was cold and uncomfortable, the air smelling vaguely of smoke, horses and sweat. The tall cliffs surrounding Mordor rose against the horizon, a long row of jagged rocks rising towards the sky and seeming to loom over them all no matter their distance.   
“Look at them.” Amelia jumped at the voice and spun, out of balance, and almost fell over at the interruption of her precious few moments of peace. Éomer stood at the corner of her tent, dressed like a general and a leader, in the colors of Rohan, but not in his armor. Amelia exclaimed a sharp sound of surprise and ran her hands through her hair.   
“I’m tense enough already, I do not need you adding to the pile!” She hissed at him and crossed her arms. “I swear, I can’t get one moment of peace without one of you boys hounding me!” Éomer simply watched her run herself out of steam and then threw his head over to where a small circle of soldiers sat huddled around an excuse for a campfire. Fires had been permitted, since Mordor would already be aware of their approach from the nazgûl that constantly circled overhead.   
“They are frightened.” Éomer remarked casually and Amelia snorted, tightening her arms around herself.   
“They are human.” She gave him a look through narrowed eyes, gesturing with her head for him to follow as she started to walk away from him. “If they weren’t, they’d be stupid. I’m scared too.” He seemed a bit surprised at how freely she admitted it and she shrugged at his inquisitive gaze. They passed two tents before he answered, seemingly weighing his words before he said them aloud.   
“Fear may be as great an ally as an enemy.” Amelia shook her head slightly and looked away.   
“Fear is fear. Fear keeps you alive. Fear keeps us going. I expect folks are a lot more afraid than they let on, especially those who have to pretend they’re not afraid at all.” Éomer bowed his head towards her and she looked up at the sky, thinking aloud instead of talking to her companion directly. “A lot of people here might be too afraid though. When we reach hell’s high waters, some of them might make a run for the hills and I won’t even be able to blame them.” They passed another campfire, where a grey-haired man sat alone, whittling a piece of wood with a knife. Amelia quickly looked away and puller her arms tighter around herself. She craned her head back and looked up at the stars peeking through the fumes of Mordor, a small smile playing at her mouth. “You know… a friend once told me… that even though things seem pretty bad down here… they’ll still be beautiful up there.” Her eyebrow quirked upwards. “My life’s pretty messed up. I mean, look at me. But… maybe that’s alright.”   
“Maybe it is.” Éomer agreed and Amelia looked back at the men they had passed, huddled together for warmth in the night. An odd feeling passed over her for a brief moment and her brows knitted together. “Those who stay at the Black Gate really will be the last sons and daughters of the west, won’t they?” Éomer didn’t answer her, but when she turned back towards him, he nodded solemnly and she bit her lip, for lack of a better thing to do.   
“I see sleep eludes you as well.” Gimli approached with heavy steps and Amelia was not startled by him, as she heard him coming.   
“Yeah.” She exhaled through her nose. “Something like that. ‘Specially since I haven’t got any math to distract me.” Gimli nodded, understanding in his eyes, and Amelia and Éomer stopped their walk beside him. “But I think I caught some extra sleep before we left Minas Tirith though, so…”  
“Aye, our rest may escape us until this business is concluded.” Amelia snorted softly at Gimli’s words, still keeping her voice soft.   
“Business, huh? I suppose that’s one thing to call it…” Looking towards the dark mountains that had gotten ever close ever since they set out, she sighed and quickly looked down at her feet again. “It’s really weird… some part of me is desperate for all of this to end, somehow, but at the same time… I don’t want it to be over.” Gimli looked disbelieving, but Éomer nodded, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “I want to go home…” Amelia sighed shakily, “But I want to stay here.”   
“Adjusting after any war is difficult, but I fear that, after one on this scale, all who have seen its horrors will bear the memories for years to come.” Éomer agreed and Amelia shook her head slightly, rubbing her forehead.   
“No, I mean… My home is so, so far away right now and I know I have to go back there… but there’s this…” She groaned and gestured with her hands around herself. “I don’t know… I mean, how?” Desperate, she turned towards Éomer and Gimli once again, lost in her ramblings. “How can I choose between… between what I’m meant for and what I want, when I feel like what I was meant for is what I want and what I want is what I’m meant for?” She seemed to lose Éomer halfway through her lengthy sentence, but Gimli looked deep in thought and concern.   
“Could be there’s little choice at all.” Gimli answered cryptically and Amelia gave him an irritated look, her feeling of acute vulnerability making her defensive and snappish.   
“Why, that clears it up. Thanks. Thanks a bunch.”   
“Could you not return?” Éomer asked cautiously and Amelia shook her head, pressing her lips together.   
“No.” She didn’t elaborate further. Then, she looked away and groaned again, her head falling back and her throat constricting. “This isn’t fair.” She whispered, “No matter what I do, I’m going to lose. Fucking hell. I’m going to lose and it fucking hurts and none if this is fucking fair-“ She broke off with a gasp, turning away and pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. She closed her mouth and inhaled a deep breath, feeling Éomer gently clasping her shoulder. “I love… so much… but this isn’t what love should feel like.” She shrugged helplessly and straightened her back, attempting to regain control of her breathing.   
“Your choice belongs to you, lass,” Gimli said after a painfully long moment of silence, “And whatever choice you make will be the right one for you.”   
“I just… You know, I think I’m in a weird mood. I think I’m just going to… go back to my tent. Try to get some sleep.” Amelia choked on her back of laughter, “Lord knows, I’m gonna need it.”   
“You’d be the best judge of that, I expect.” Éomer answered and bowed. Amelia tried to repeat the gesture, but found that she made it look sillier than he did and resorted to smiling a small, watery smile at both him and herself as she turned and hurried back the way she came, throwing Gimli a quick, thankful look as she passed him. On the way back to her bedroll in her tent, she caught the eyes of the old man with the lump of wood in his hands and saw that one of them was white and dead, but the other was sharp, clear and dark. 

When the army rose of the day that they would arrive at the Black Gate, it was keenly felt by all. Their coming battle lurked in the minds of all, giving way to little else of thought. Throughout the morn, Amelia heard petty little argument erupt continuously throughout camp, and through the procession, once they got underway once again, brought on by the tension, the fear and the unease tightening its grip on every man.   
Amelia looked back more than she needed to from her position in the front, though she constantly berated herself for it. The sight brought her nothing but worry and irritation born from that worry, for the men glared at each other and the Steward in the front, grumbled at each other and the clouds and the horses were jumpy and held too tightly by their riders. They were all frightened, but Amelia didn’t feel like guessing how many would overcome that fear in the inevitable end.   
Aeglos felt ever heavier in its sheath and Amelia only became more aware of its weight with every step her horse took towards Mordor. Several times, she had to pull it back into the procession when it hopefully tried to turn back the way it had come, perhaps hoping that Amelia wouldn’t notice. She did, but she had half a mind to pretend the opposite.   
Abruptly, after a scant few hours into a day that would no doubt be tiring on all accounts, the terrain began to slope upwards and became rocky. Boulders lay atop a layer of rocks and Amelia leaned back in her saddle as her horse struggled up the hill. The air was thick with the smell of poisonous fumes and smoke.  
“Keep your eyes on the road.” She heard Gandalf yell back at the procession and she gave him an unimpressed look.   
“There’s not a lot of road to look at.” She called back and it was true; the only pathway they had had to follow had waned and disappeared long ago, leaving Denethor in the front of the procession to ride a path for rest of their army to follow. Gandalf ignored her quip, but she had grown used to that long ago and it didn’t touch her, and she attempted, with her limited skill at riding hindering her somewhat, to steer her horse around the places where the ground looked most treacherous.   
Her horse screamed as its front legs suddenly lost their already insecure footing, the rocks beneath them giving away and tumbling down the slope. Her horse scrambled wildly, panic making it loose focus and Amelia yelled in surprise as it slipped down the slope, rocks flying and long legs desperately searching for solid ground. She heard several voices calling the name of both herself and her horse and she pulled at the reins with all of her might. Then, at the base of the hill, just as suddenly as it had lost it, Amelia’s horse found its legs again and steadied, still throwing its head and making it abundantly clear that the last thing it wanted was a second attempt up the steep slope.   
Amelia brushed her loose hair out of her face, but it was still impossible to see who it was who had broken out of the procession to ride back down to her, even though the sun ought to have made it easy to see. The clouds rolling out from Mordor to the east made that an impossibility.   
Amelia hushed her horse as it whinnied again and stepped backwards as the rider reached her and she attempted to soothingly stroke its neck while mumbling quietly to it, but comfort of any kind had never been one of her strongest suits, even as a little girl.   
She looked up and met Legolas’ old eyes, immediately seeing the obvious question in them. For some reason, an odd feeling of disappointment filled her stomach, but since she didn’t knew and care for the cause, she discarded the feeling easily. She rolled her eyes and shoulders, looking away quickly.   
“No, I’m not friggin’ fine, but that’s never stopped me before.” With a snap and a kick, Amelia started her horse back up the hill past the elf and the dwarf, who shook his head at her as she passed. She didn’t meet his eyes, focusing intensely on the ground again to avoid a repeat of the incident that had nearly cost her her steed.   
Her skin began to prickle, as it did whenever someone’s eyes rested on her, but when she looked back and up, towards the front of the procession, she saw no one whose gaze was directed at her. She was certain that she had felt a known set of eyes watching her intently, either Aragorn or Boromir perhaps, but they were not looking at her.   
Then, Denethor, Aragorn and Gandalf stopped at the top of the slope and Amelia frowned, attempting to reach the top of the slope faster to see what had caused their halt. She could hear Legolas, with Gimli on the horse as well, following behind her.   
She didn’t make her horse stop when she caught up to the leaders of the procession, but she had no need to either. It did so of its own accord, but Amelia’s attention had been caught fully and utterly by what lay beyond the hill it had taken her more than one attempt to master.   
Below the steep, downwards lope was a sandy, grey plain, wide, but not far, but it was what lay at the end of it that held Amelia transfixed. At the end of the Morannon lay a wall at least as tall as those of Minas Tirith it was, jagged and black and crudely adorned with large spikes and dark chains, with the enormous middle occupied by a doorway many times bigger than the doors that had led into the white city before they had been breached in the siege.   
Amelia didn’t even consider making a quip, for she felt her mood plummet swiftly at the sight of the Black Gate of Mordor. A small part of her had hoped for their journey, tense and uneventful as it had been, to last longer or even an eternity, to spare her the coming battle. She had already been in more than one, but the coming culmination of the last several months of her life was one she had begun to not look forward to as much as she would have at Rivendell.   
It heralded the end of her time in Middle-Earth and she didn’t know which of her many emotions about it to rely on.   
She looked to her right as Legolas caught up to her on her left and Gimli exclaimed something in Khuzdul. She caught Merry’s eyes and saw that he was probably looking to her for encouragement, but in that hour, she had none to give, so she gave him a quick, pained smile and then looked past him, briefly locking eyes with Boromir. He looked at her in return and for a moment, Amelia felt something fierce stir in her. They broke eye contact at the same time and looked towards Mordor’s black lands, where a volcano rose ominously in the distance.   
As Denethor started down the hill, closely followed by Gandalf and Aragorn, Mount Doom rumbled darkly and Amelia fastened her eyes on it, her mouth curling up in a sneer. In a rush, she set her horse in motion again, keeping a steady, fast pace as she set her course directly for the Black Gate.  
Above her, breaking the sudden silence that had haunted them all ever since they set out from the white city, a nazgûl screeched and turned, flying over them and into the dark lands of Mordor.


	33. The Final Precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colors wave!  
> And either victory or else a grave.”   
> -William Shakespeare, Henry VI

“Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!” Aragorn cried upwards, at the foot of the black gate. At his sides were Gandalf and Pippin on one horse, and Boromir, who was glancing wearily at the White Wizard. Amelia sat on her horse, between Éomer and Merry and Legolas and Gimli, but she did not see that they were all looking at her for answers as to what they ought to expect when the black gates opened. She narrowed her eyes uneasily as the eerie silence. Even their horses seemed far quieter than what was normal. Denethor stood a few steps in front of them, on his own steed as well, and Amelia noticed with a twitch that his face was the color of curdled milk.  
The Black Gate towered above them, dwarfing the people gathered in front of it, the small gathering of leaders who had ridden ahead of the army waiting on the slope behind them, a massive door plonked awkwardly down into a flat, barren wasteland. There was no vegetation, no gnarly roots or bushes, no birds or insects. Only grey ash and brown dirt stretching into the horizon. To the west, there was a bare hint of greener lands where the land met the sky, but it was more of a cruel reminder than a bitter comfort. The gate was black as night and dripping, dripping with what looked like oil and, at the bottom, what looked like the remains of orcs who had been too slow to get inside and avoid being crushed by the mighty gateway into Mordor.   
“Let him taste the might of Gondor!” Denethor’s voice wasn’t nearly as impressive as Aragorn’s, who commanded the respect of the armies of Rohan and Gondor with a sharp gaze and clear words. Amelia bit her lip and looked down, keeping any comments she might have had to herself. She knew, for once, that it was neither the time or place for any ill-timed comments.   
She shuffled uncomfortably in her saddle, her knuckles whitening as her grip of the reins of her horse tightened.   
Then, a roaring creak echoed over the wasteland and Amelia’s hands flew up to cover her ears. Her horse scrambled backwards and she gripped the reins again as the doors of the Black Gate slowly swung open, scraping over the dry ground, with the painful sounds of grinding chains coming from the black towers flanking it. Goosebumbs rose along Amelia’s spine as she stared at the lonely figure emerging out of the enormous doorway, unease tight in her gut. Behind the rider, whose horse was thin as bone and black, with clumps in its fur, she could see a suffering land covered in dark ash. Surprisingly, a few gnarly roots sprung up from the ground in some places, but they were dead and twisted and sick. As her horse calmed, though it was still skittish, she held up the back of her hand against her mouth as a heavy smell, akin to sulfur, smoke and rotting flesh rolled over her. Her face twisted in revolt.   
The rider, whose face was covered in a metallic mask of iron plate, with a dark cloak over it and covering his entire body, had only his large mouth visible. It was oddly shaped, with spit and something Amelia didn’t care to identify as anything other than “black goo” running down its pale chin, and the it split in an odd, twitchy smile as its owner stopped in front of Denethor. The Steward was leaning back in his saddle, but Amelia couldn’t blame him much for it. Her eyes briefly met Aragorn’s, but then she turned her attention back to the rider. The Black Gate had yet to close again.   
“My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome.” The black rider’s mouth spewed black saliva as he spoke and Amelia stared in obvious revulsion as his grin widened awkwardly, showing off long, yellow teeth, broken and with no sign of a tongue. “Is there any in this rout with the authority to treat with me?” Amelia’s mind blanched as she saw Denethor open his mouth, and she swore than she could have sung to the high heavens when Gandalf swiftly spoke in his stead, cutting off the Steward’s chance to ruin things further than they already were.   
“We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed.” Even the wizard looked put off by the rider’s odd appearance. “Tell you master this: The armies of Morder must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return.” After a pause, the rider smiled again and Amelia grimaced indiscreetly.  
“Old Greybeard.” Amelia saw the glimpse of something that looked like solid moonlight in his cloaked grasp. “I have a token I was bidden to show thee.” Then, he unveiled Frodo’s shirt of mithril and horror dawned on Merry and Pippin’s faces. Amelia blinked, but all seemed to have forgotten her in their sudden shock. Gandalf caught the shirt as the rider threw it towards him. The chainmail rustled softly between his hands.   
“Frodo!” Pippin murmured.   
“No!” Merry choked out and Gandalf called for silence twice.   
“The halfling was dear to thee, I see.” The rider turned his head away, his smile so wide it hurt to see. “Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host.”   
Then, the terror and silence was broken by a loud, obnoxious rattle of a snore from Amelia. The rider’s head snapped towards her and her friends stared at her with raised eyebrows and parted lips. After a time that seemed excessive, even by Amelia’s bloated standards, she stopped. Then, she spoke, giving no time for reprimands or as much as a sharp word from Gandalf.  
“Know that I-“ She cleared her throat, having started off at a squeak, for despite her acting every inch the opposite, she felt far from humorous in the situation. Her shoulders were rigid with tension. “Know that I call bullshit.” She threw her head at the mithril shirt in Gandalf’s hands. “So let me tell you something.” She leaned forwards in her saddle and her face twisted into an ugly sneer. “You are going to die. Your goddamn master is going down in flames and we are going to wipe the fucking floor with your army. You are going to die and I’m going to enjoy watching it.”   
“That is enough.” Denethor snapped and Amelia reluctantly complied, glaring darkly at him as he gave her a stern look. Then, he turned back towards the rider, obviously feeling himself too lofty to deal with her at length. She didn’t notice the badly hidden looks of approval that both Merry and Pippin sent her way, delighted at her declaration of their coming victory. Amelia looked over at Aragorn as Denethor started to prattle about his unnegotiable demands, each more ludicrous than the other, but then the rider turned his masked head away from Denethor in disinterest and instead fixed his attention on Aragorn, as if the plates on his face did nothing to obscure his vision.   
“Isildur’s Heir. A broken elvish blade in the hands of a son of a broken line. It takes more than that to make a king.” The rider looked back at Denethor, who had bristled and whose mouth was twitching oddly. Amelia couldn’t make out his face beneath his helmet. With an odd feeling clenching in her chest, she looked upwards and saw the shapes of orcs up on the walls of the Black Gate. “I taste the might of Gondor… the might of men…” The rider sneered, his posture changing for the derogatory, “And thus, I am not impressed. And no matter the outcome…” Aragorn rode forwards and around the rider, disgust evident on his face. “The halfling certainly suffered and will continue to suffer.” In a smooth motion, Andúril was unsheathed and the rider’s head was separated from his body, tumbling down into the dirt and rolling away. His body slumped and fell, landing heavily. The black horse screamed and turned, kicking it legs, and fled back into Mordor, kicking up ash and dust behind it.  
“Guess that concludes negotiations.” Gimli mumbled wryly. Amelia glanced up again and then, her mouth opened and her eyes widened.   
“I do not believe it.” Aragorn exclaimed at them, but Amelia paid no mind to his words. “I will not!”  
“Get down!” Amelia snapped loudly, turning her horse back in the same second the archers up on the walls let their arrows fly. The small gathering in front of the gate scattered, their horses whinnying and sprinting wildly away from the sudden hail of black arrows.   
“I certainly don’t remember this from the-“ Amelia’s words died in her throat at an arrow lodged itself in the throat of Denethor, who had been too slow to turn his horse and her face filled with horror at the grisly sight. His grey eyes widened, looked like twin moons for a second, and he coughed on the blood welling out of him. With a gurgle, he fell from his horse and his armor clanged as he fell to the ground. His right foot was still lodged in the stirrup, resulting in his flailing form being dragged gruesomely back towards the army they had gathered from Gondor and Rohan. A trail of blood was left in his wake and even from a distance, Amelia could see the long arrow planted in him, standing as upright as a standard.   
Amelia steered her horse to the left and to the right, knowing that riding straight would only make her more of a target for the arrows that were still flying. One whizzed past her ear and Amelia felt the sting of pain when it grazed her left ear and took a few of her hairs with it. She saw that Boromir was riding hard after his father, but because he was in front of her, she couldn’t see his face, nor catch his eye.   
Two men from Gondor, one on horseback and one on foot, grabbed the horse and pulled Denethor’s foot out of his stirrup, talking in high voices to each other, gesturing wildly at each other and the dying Steward. Then, Boromir reached them and all but jumped off his horse, taking a knee beside his father, who had gone still at last. Amelia considered it no moment to be mourned, but she knew that others felt far differently than she and thus, she said nothing as she reached them and slid off her steed quickly, taking running steps and then crouching down at Denethor’s side. Aragorn, Gandalf, Legolas and Éomer were still riding towards them, having had to swerve widely to avoid the same fate as Denethor.   
“Shit, shit, shit, piss and fuck.” Amelia chanted to herself as she crouched, but no one paid any attention to her.   
“Father…” Boromir called out, grasping his shoulder, but Denethor’s eyes were blank as glass and staring upwards, seeing nothing and no one any longer.   
“Boromir.” Amelia said it loudly, perhaps a bit harsher than what was necessary, but she got no reaction. “There’ll be time for that later.” When she still got no response, she looked away, allowing him a moment while she rose to her feet and looked at the rider and the horseless man who had calmed Denethor’s panicked horse. With the panic and adrenaline rushing through it, it hadn’t feel the pain of two arrows burying themselves in its rear, but it definitely felt it then and whimpered, looking dangerously close to collapsing. Making a quick decision that she would surely later be berated for, Amelia snapped her fingers at the footsoldier. “You. Take my horse. Take the Steward…” She threw her head at Denethor’s still body, “Back to Minas Tirith. You can put him on the injured horse if you like or drag it with you or whatever. Just get him out of here.” For a moment, the man looked doubtful of her authority, but then the man on the horse hummed a bit.   
“As you say, ladyship.” He grumbled and Amelia heard a few mumbles around her, most of them discontent and jealousy at the two men’s permission to return to Minas Tirith alive, with no fighting having been done. Without looking to see if her order was followed, she turned and lowered herself to Boromir’s level once again, attempting to pull him away from his father’s body with a firm hand, but a gentle intention, while she mumbled softly into his brown hair. He only stood up when the two men assured him that they would handle the Steward’s body with the utmost care and that they would see it safely back to the white city. Feeling out of place, Amelia awkwardly placed her hand on Boromir’s shoulder, in a show of silent support. She had nothing else to give him but that and she didn’t know whether it would ever be enough, but she would readily give it without question.   
“Lord Denethor?” Gandalf reached them first, with Éomer, Legolas and Gimli, and then Aragorn following, and didn’t spare any time for condolences. Amelia looked up and shook her head, seeing as Boromir was still looking at his father, who was rapidly being taken away from the rapidly coming battle. He dismounted his white horse, Shadowfax, and Legolas and Gimli follow suit, while Aragorn stayed on his horse. Instead of a verbal answer, Amelia shook his head, tightening her grip on Boromir’s armored shoulder. Gimli glanced back at Aragorn, who was pale, but whose eyes burned with a fire that Amelia had never beheld before that day.   
“Boromir.” Aragorn said and Boromir’s grey eyes snapped to him. For a moment, it looked like he was going to fight, but then, something passed between Isildur’s Heir and the Son of Gondor and he squared his shoulders, set his jaws and nodded sharply. Amelia’s hand dropped and she drew Aeglos with the other was a distant stomping reached her ears. The men of Rohan and Gondor had already noticed it, muttering amongst themselves, but Amelia cared not for the few who turned tail and ran back up the hill, scrambling to get a grip on the slope. The sight of some of their comrades fleeing seemed to give the remaining men a stubborn determination however, and Amelia heard several of them cursing the deserters.   
The Black Gate rumbled, but the sound was deafened by the sound of thousands of stomping feet, clad in iron, and Amelia swore beneath her breath at the sight and size of the orcs of Mordor’s army, already appearing at the gate and marching quickly towards them.   
“Hold your ground!” Aragorn cried and moved along the army’s edge, seeming to look each of them in the eye at the same time. Amelia’s eyes were trained on him, blind to all else and those closest around her. “Hold your ground!” Aragorn’s sharp command and encouragement stopped most of the fleeing men in their tracks and they looked back, fearful. “Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers!” Aragorn’s voice lowered a bit, but it still held the fiery intensity all too fitting of a king of men. “I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day.” Amelia’s grip on her sword tightened, as well as her jaw. An hour of wolves and shattered shields, when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight!” Aragorn shouted and Amelia felt her heart swell with mad battlelust, pride and terror, mixed in one acute, glorious moment. “By all that you hold dear on this good Earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!” Andúril seemed to burn with a clear light as Aragorn held it above his head and, as one, the army around Amelia unsheathed their own blades, the sharp sound of swords sliding out of sheaths singing around her.   
Then, Amelia froze as the Eye of Sauron, lit like a fire atop the tower of Barad-dûr, turned on its axis and suddenly locked itself on Aragorn, bathing him and all behind him, including Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Merry, Pippin, Boromir and Amelia in its orange light. Amelia sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation and Sauron’s words, branded in her mind as they were, seemed to echo in her ears again. Blindly, she grasped for something to ground herself with and her hand abruptly seized Boromir’s wrist in a deathgrip.  
In slow moments, Aragorn slid off his horse, as if he was in a dream, and worried mumblings arose among the ranks of rohirrim and gondorians. He stepped forwards, several steps, as if he was dragged gently forwards by the great eye, but then he stopped. Amelia heard the distant stomping of the orcs and, beneath that, whispers and screams that had never come to be at all, and desperately looked at Aragorn as he turned back towards them.   
His face was strange, warm even, and his eyes shone with unshed tears as he gave them a smile that seemed both broken and serene, mighty in its humanity.  
“For Frodo.” The words were soft, gentle and faithful, spoken in absolute certainly of his actions. Then, he pivoted, gripped his swords with both hands and set off into a sprint towards the dark army approaching with a mighty yell.  
Amelia stared as Merry and Pippin let out cries of their own, not as intimidating, but still impressive with their boldness, and rushed forwards on short legs, their own blades raised high above their heads.   
In a rush of movement that sent ripples, those in front of the army of men cried out, some cursing, some yelling challenges and some simply screaming out their terror and bloodlust, and thundered forwards as one entity, the little sunlight that managed to get through the clouds glinting off raised swords, daggers and polished armor, arrows being released from and hailed down on both sides.   
Madness had gripped Amelia, madness born from the desperate unity that had formed in the collective awareness of the army, that some side’s final hour had come and they would need every effort to not let it be their doom approaching. They could fight or die, and to most, the preferable alternative was as clear as the bright dawn.   
Amelia’s legs burned, but Amelia only found exhilaration in every hurt and labored breath as she ran like she had never run before, not in Moria, Rohan nor Gondor and for a second that seemed to last an eternity, she felt more alive than she had ever felt before, with every sense heightened to its possible peak and her heartbeat booming in her ears.   
Her body was alight with pain when she slammed herself into a hunchback of an orc, but it was a pain that she wished would never end, and she slammed her elbow into the orc’s nose, following it up with a quick stab to the abdomen. She kicked the orc off her sword and swirled, immediately slapping another orc, who had yellow eyes like a bug and lacked an ear, with her flat palm and then using her momentum to deliver a swift sword through its chest, twisting Aeglos and feeling muscle and meat give way to the blade. The orc spat at her as it fell to the ground and Amelia turned around wildly, her blue eyes gleaming blankly.   
Pain lanced across her left calf and she spun with a snarl, barely noticing her blood seeping out through her clothes as she buried Aeglos in the skull of a tall, muscular orc, through his squinty, right eye. Black blood spewed out and across her face, like a dark dash of freckles. The stark, red blood from her leg ran down and mingled with the black blood of the orcs. She breathed out through her nose. It could only have been an arrow that didn’t manage to lodge itself completely in her leg, but still managed a sizable cut on its way, and she threw herself back into the fray before her body could even realize that it had been wounded at all.   
Numbing pain exploded across the left half of her face as a small orc hit her jaw with all the might its tiny self could muster and Amelia, disoriented, fell to the ground and found herself staring into the dead eyes of a man of Rohan beside her, his helmet dented and his blonde hair matted with blood and ash. Amelia yelped and rolled over, narrowly missing the orc’s sword and struggling to get back on her feet with her injured leg.   
She jumped backwards when a sword buried itself through the neck of the orc from behind. Imrahil then kicked the corpse aside with a grunt and pulled her roughly to her feet, patting her shoulder, but leaving no time for chatter as he blocked the move of two orcs with his broad sword at the same time, something Amelia had been specifically taught not to do, and cleaved their heads off with a broad swing. Amelia slammed the butt of her sword into the temple of an orc bashing on the shield of a young man of Gondor with a large mace, surprising it from behind and then sending Aeglos down through its open mouth. She ignored the man’s grateful cry and she stumbled around herself and narrowly stepped aside, the longsword that would have cleaved her skull slamming down into the bloodied ground instead. Since the sword required some effort to lift from its owner, Amelia seized her opportunity and sent her blade through the heart of the orc. When her sword slid out of her foe, she stumbled backwards, breathless and her head spinning.   
Then, Amelia hissed angrily and her head snapped upwards as the screeches of five nazgûl pierced through the cacophony of battlecries and the screams of the dying and Amelia saw them, atop their flying beasts, speeding towards the battle outside of the Black Gate. In a chain of events that almost happened too quickly for Amelia to comprehend, five brown shapes to match the black ones emerged out of the cover of the clouds covering the skies and collided with the nazgûl, claws outstretched and beaks tearing into whatever they could find to harm.   
“The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!” At first, Amelia heard the small voice of a joyous hobbit yell it, but then it spread to the men and the men of the west found new hope again at the appearance of the eagles, who Amelia doubted had ever been seen by any common soldier for many decades. She allowed herself a brief moment of relief, of jubilation and joy, but then reality flooded her again and Aeglos was buried in the neck, armpits and bellies of orcs both small and hunched and large and bulging with tight muscles.   
In her exhaustion, as her muscles shook with exertion, Amelia screamed as she drove Aeglos into the shoulder of a dark orc with poor armor and swung it into its neck, taking its head half off.   
An arrow whizzed past her nose and buried itself in the forehead of an orc that had been approaching her from the side and Amelia sent Legolas a brief look of gratitude before she ran past him and barreled into two orcs at the same time. Pain blossomed through her hip when one of their axes hit it, and Amelia thanked her God that it had been with the flat side, and she thrust her sword into the offender’s stomach in return, one of Legolas’ arrows felling the other in the blink of an eye.   
Amelia whirled around, stumbling on her feet, when Legolas cried Aragorn’s name and let loose another arrow. Amelia followed his line of sight and snarled in anger. Aragorn was facing a troll thrice his size, covered in dark plating, with a rusty greatsword twice his height and broken teeth, clearly being overpowered by its sheer size and raw strength.   
With a sudden shriek, the nazgûl turned tail and sped towards Mount Doom, as if drawn by unseen strings, but Amelia paid them no heed. She mindlessly launched herself in Aragorn’s direction, but her path was cut off by an old man of Rohan, desperately and barely holding off two great orcs with only his shield for cover. With a hoarse yell, Amelia stabbed the first through the neck, but she had lost the moment of surprise and was distracted by Aragorn’s desperate battle with the troll when it came to the second. Her first strike was blocked by its armor, a most basic mistake to make, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Legolas also struggled against men and orcs alike to reach Aragorn, his quiver empty of arrows. He wielded two long knives instead, but they could not carve him a path to his friend.   
Amelia’s distraction was a costly one. Amelia cried out, tears of frustration beading in the corners of her eyes as the orc brought one of its long, slick daggers down on her left arm. It carved through her mail like butter, obviously made for that specific purpose and Amelia felt it slide over the bone inside her. With a yell, she ducked the other dagger aimed for her throat and pulled her arm out of the orcs grip with a snarl. At the sudden movement, her grip of Aeglos slackened at it slipped out of her grasp, landing on the ground.   
She had only taken a single item from her old backpack when she left it in Minas Tirith, but it would be one that saved her life. In a jerk, she pulled the orcish dagger up from the belt the Lady Arwen had gifted to her and buried it in the armpit of the orc with a crazed laugh, pitched higher than her usual tone. She was scarcely able to believe the irony of it, as the dagger had originally been meant to take her own life, as she had found it embedded in her backpack, but she was smart enough to quickly retrieve her sword from the ground and tighten her grip on it, descending on the orc with a yell. She pushed Aeglos though the small space in the orc’s plating at the collarbone, pushing it with all the force she had in her one good arm. It fell on its back and Amelia stumbled forwards, yelling incoherently when her path was blocked again and the troll knocked Aragorn down into the dirt, kicking him once, surely breaking more than a single rib in the process, and then placing its colossal, circular foot on his chest, pressing down on him.   
And then, it was the screech of a hundred nazgûl echoed out from Mordor, filled to the brim with terror, pain and all-inducing rage and Amelia screamed along with it, for she was all too familiar with the sounds of Sauron from the Palantír, but not once had she thought that a single entity, no matter its body or mind or soul, could even emit such hatred and rage. She raised her eyes to barad-dûr and her scream died out as she saw that the fiery Eye of Sauron swerved wildly around, even as the headsplitting scream that came from it continued without end, and then, the dark tower it was atop began to crumble, layer by layer, the smaller towers around it falling over and collapsing in on themselves. Barad-dûr tipped at the Eye of Sauron widened, turned as bright as the sun, and then imploded and Amelia knew then that Frodo and Sam had done what they had set out to do from the valley of Imladris.   
Amelia staggered and fell to her knees as the shockwave of Sauron’s final defeat hit her and salty tears streamed down her bruised face, leaving clear tracks in the dirt, the blood and the grime that covered her. Deep sobs wracked her body as men around her thrust their blades high, embraced those they either knew as friends or complete strangers alike, and the army of orcs that had surrounded them all screamed and fled in one mass of chaos. Amelia wept, Aeglos discarded on the ground beside her, as the ground behind the Black Gate began to collapse and every piece of land that an orc stood on collapsed and fell down into the abyss beneath it, no longer held up by the sheer will that Sauron had had. With a sob, Amelia straightened her back and pressed the back of her right hand to her mouth, though she remained on the knees.  
Mount Doom exploded with a roar, magma flying into the sky at the eruption and lava flowing down its sides and Amelia was reminded of a cracked egg spilling open. She knew that only she was aware that their ringbearer would not come to further harm, but she didn’t consider telling anyone of those who had to wonder about it. As that was left was the aching relief and the pain she finally allowed herself to feel and in that moment, there was nothing else. Her tears dripped down her chin as she allowed herself to cry for all that she had done and suffered, every bruise, nick and pang of hunger on the long road that she had, in the end, willingly chosen to walk.


	34. Dawning Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”   
> -Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

“You’re acting like a child.” Amelia snapped at Boromir, clenching her hands at her sides. The houses of Healing where Frodo and Sam had been flown were located in northern Ithilien, quite close to Cair Andros, and had gardens where the patients could walk. Their maladies were mended with fresh air and gardening, a treatment that Amelia imagined Sam only approved of. She had yet to see either of the hobbits, since she had spent hours tracking down Boromir, only to find him hiding in the gardens. “You’re going to have to face Frodo sooner or later.” Boromir sent her a dark look and she cocked her head, crossing her arms tightly.   
“I would not force him to relive anymore of his pain than he already has.”  
“Enough with the excuses!” Amelia had, at first, been understanding of his trepidation, but after spending close to an hour of her time attempting to convince him to overcome it, her patience had been worn thin. “You keep telling me that you’re thinking about Frodo, and yet you’re acting like a selfish arse about it!” His eyes narrowed slightly at her. “Did it occur to you that it might help him, seeing you again in one piece? That it might help you?” When he didn’t answer her, she threw up her hands in frustration, groaned loudly and turned, stomping away and trying in vain to not let his stubbornness ruin the excited anticipation she felt at seeing Frodo and Sam after many weeks spent apart. 

She could already hear the laughter before she was anywhere close to the rest of the Fellowship.   
As she climbed the steps to the door, the one that led into the room where Frodo had been resting for a while by then, she could hear Gimli’s throaty chuckle mixing with Gandalf’s laugh, Merry and Pippin’s cries of joy rising above both.   
When she turned to walk in the door, she stumbled, as she had not seen that a fourth hobbit already stood in the doorway before she decided to enter it.   
“Sam!” She exclaimed happily as she toppled over and landed heavily on the floor, face first, and she heard that it only made the others laugh even harder. Sam had nicks, cuts and fading bruises covering his face and forearms, yet his complexion was healthy and his eyes were the same as ever, but he had lost weight.   
“Miss Amelia!” He exclaimed in surprise and immediately moved to help her up. “I didn’t see you there…”  
“I think I ought to be saying that.” Amelia answered dryly as she got to her feet and stumbled slightly before she regained her foothold. Then, she looked at Frodo, who still laid in the large bed in the middle of the small, but bright room, and she stared.  
His eyes were sunken and his skin had the color of candlewax, covered in nasty bruises, cuts and scrapes as it was. His face was gaunt and hollow, he looked as underfed as a wild dog, and his lips were grey. Still, a faint, exhausted smile played at the edge of his mouth, pulling it upwards just a bit, while his eyes were drooping. For a moment, Amelia lost her tongue, a rare thing to happen, and she scrambled for something to say as all eyes in the room rested on her.  
“You look like you just stumbled out of Mount Doom.” She quipped, but her voice wasn’t as preppy as she would have liked, making her words come out almost sad.   
“Miss Amelia…” Frodo croaked, and nodded to her. Through the gap in his shirt, Amelia could see a stark, red brand on his chest where the ring had hung, alongside a nasty, round scar in a sickly shade somewhere between green and yellow, the obvious result of the poison of Shelob. Amelia tried not to grimace at the sight and managed to control her own facial expression. Frodo’s face fell a bit and she blinked at the change. “Where is Boromir?” Amelia glanced at Aragorn and shook her head slightly.   
“He’s, well… he’s fine. Mostly intact and all. He just lost his father, even though he was a colossal…” Aragorn coughed and Amelia sighed. “Well, he’s gone and I think Boromir’s still brooding about that. Plus, he’s still up in a twist about Amon Hen, even though I have literally been trying for months to get him to realize that, yes, he messed up, but in the end, he…” She shook her head. “Never mind about that. I’ve given enough tirades to him already. Don’t need to bring you into the mix.” She gave him a pointed look. “You look like you’ve had enough to do with the ring to last a lifetime, and then some.”   
“And quite right too.” Gandalf added, nodding to himself, still smiling widely.   
Amelia looked at each face in the room and she recognized none of them from Rivendell. There was no ranger, but a king. There was no prince, but an elf who had, for the first time, come face to face with what death really meant for the lesser races. There was no skeptical dwarf, but one who had seen that which was fairest. There was no old man, but a true wizard. There were no young rascals playing with fireworks, but swords sworn to mighty lords. There was no gardener, but a hero. There was no hobbit, but a ringbearer and all that came with that heavy title.  
She did not know where she fit into the Fellowship, but wherever it was, she was content to simply let it be and so she sat on a chair in the corner of the room, uncharacteristically quiet, as she observed the scene before her. Merry and Pippin babbled on endlessly about the wonders they had seen, Gimli pulled out and puffed on his pipe, Aragorn conversed casually with Legolas and Gandalf spoke in a low voice with Sam, his face graver than Amelia liked, but she didn’t care to worry about it.   
Absentmindedly, she twisted Cilya on her finger, finding the familiar feeling of the band a strange comfort.   
A cough from the doorway caught her attention. Her eyebrows jerked upwards when she saw Boromir, who looked like he was already regretting his decision to show up at all, with his hands hanging restlessly at his side and his head bent, avoiding Frodo’s eyes. Amelia stared at him, but his grey eyes were fixed on anywhere that wasn’t those of another person.   
“May I enter?” He asked softly and Amelia blinked, perplexed. He had yet to even cross the threshold. Frodo glanced at Sam, who gave him a strange look that Amelia couldn’t decipher in return, and then, he wordlessly bowed his head to Boromir. He looked weary, but also sad, as he watched Boromir awkwardly approach the foot of his bed, all within the room keeping a sharp eye on him.   
Then, Boromir bowed deeply to the hobbit.   
“Master Baggins,” He said gravely, “I stand before you in deepest shame. In my folly, I nearly brought about the ultimate end, and for that, I have only my eternal regret to offer.” He looked as if he had much more to say, but Frodo cut him off.   
“You should not have tried to take it.” He said, but it was more of a regretful sigh than an accusation. Even so, Boromir’s face twitched slightly and Amelia recognized immediately that Frodo’s words cut deep. “But I cannot fault you for any of it, Boromir.” He sunk back into his pillows. “I, myself, felt its power. It’s allure. It held all the promises of the world to me… and it is gone.”  
“And good riddance to it, I might add.” Sam added grumpily. Amelia hid her snort of laughter behind a hand, though she still followed the proceedings with massive interest.   
“The ring ensnared the both of us.” Frodo breathed, melancholy thick in his voice. “But it is gone. Any guilt you may have had is gone with it.” Amelia barely suppressed her wide grin, but she did manage to present it merely as a proud smile instead. Boromir didn’t react as strongly to Frodo’s words as Amelia did, but she knew him well enough to see that they did lift a burden from his shoulders. Then, an awkward silence ensued, where no one really knew what they ought to say or do, but then, Amelia clapped her hands together. Sam, Aragorn and Boromir jumped at the sharp sound, but then frowned at the strange way she grinned at the lot of them.   
“What are you grinning about?” Pippin asked suspiciously from his position on the bed and Amelia laughed a short laugh to herself, shaking her head.   
“I never actually thought we’d make it. I mean, look at us, the actual Fellowship of the Ring, all in one piece…” She glanced at Frodo’s bandaged hand. “Well, almost in one piece, that is, and everything’s so sugary, I almost feel nauseous.” She beamed at her friends, of which the majority looked at least mildly disturbed. “I honestly couldn’t be happier.” 

Riding back into Minas Tirith was the definition of a once in a lifetime experience.   
For centuries, the people of Gondor had lived in the shadow of dark mountains. Generations had lived and died with the distant glow in the east. There had been a neverending darkness overshadowing every time of joy and happiness, with skirmishes with orcs having been fought by unlucky scouts and rangers every day, and too many lives had been lost to Mordor to ever be counted.   
No longer.   
Silver trumpets blew as the king rode into the city, the Fellowship of the Ring following him closely, and the clear sound of tolling bells rose above the cacophonous explosion of shouting, cries and intense relief. Old women wept into their hands, children, who didn’t understand the situation beyond that something glorious had happened after waiting for it for far too long, ran after the surviving horses, waving to their riders, and women screamed the names of their fathers, husbands and brothers, some finding them and others collapsing in grief when they didn’t. There had been so much death in such a short time, but then, it seemed as if the very city itself was alive.   
Amelia didn’t see Boromir, Aragorn or any other member of the procession she was in. She only saw the faces, the unforgettable faces and she drank them in, knowing she would never see any expressions like those who donned the faces of the people of Minas Tirith that day. Such relief, such grief, such joy and such joy, so vibrant a joy it shone, was wondrous to behold and in that moment, Amelia felt that the months of trekking across lands that she had never believed existed, months of blood, sweat and horror, that they had all been worth it to see the end of the war, though she was far from willing to go through it again.  
The people paid special heed to Frodo and Sam, with a fair amount given to Merry and Pippin as well, and Amelia heard phrases repeated in their cheers, some of which she understood and others in a tongue she had never learned.

'Long live the Halflings! Praise them with great praise!  
Cuio i Pheriain anann! Aglar'ni Pheriannath!  
Praise them with great praise, Frodo and Samwise!  
Daur a Berhael, Conin en Annûn! Eglerio!  
Praise them!  
Eglerio!  
A laita te, laita te! Andave laituvalmet!  
Praise them!  
Cormacolindor, a laita tárienna!  
Praise them! The Ring-bearers, praise them with great praise!'

Frodo looked startled at the amount of attention he received, but Amelia couldn’t blame him, and wordlessly extended her sympathies as she glanced back towards him on his pony. No one bothered to hide their pointing as they spotted his missing finger, whispering spreading like wildfire, and some even stretched out their hands towards him, falling to their knees and crying out their blessings upon him. Amelia heard several people mistaking one hobbit for the other, but she seemed alone in noticing Frodo’s growing discomfort. She could do nothing for him, short of stopping the entire procession to help him and she doubted that would be well received by anyone, and so she turned back in her saddle.   
She jerked when something touched her leg and twisted, looking back to where someone was reaching out for her on the ground. It was a young girl, barely even a teenager yet, with tousled hair, like she had been running and a beaming expression, though she was breathless from running to Amelia’s horse. She was holding her skirts in one hand, to make it easier for herself to run, and in the other, she held a small bouquet of dandelions, daisies and a few buttercups, stretched out like an offering. The flowers were the kind that were the easiest to find under normal circumstances, but Amelia suspected that even the simplest of such plants were difficult to find in a city made of stone, especially after a long, hard siege that had wrought great destruction upon it.   
Confused, but not surprised, Amelia reached out to take the humble gift, then smiled back at the girl who shouted something at her. Amelia tried to thank her, but the noise around them prevented any words from being heard. She hoped she had managed to communicate gratitude well enough, but her perplexion only increased as she received two more gifts of a similar nature. She could understand why they would wish to express their gratitude with whatever gifts they could manage to give away, but she didn’t understand why they gave them to her directly. Aragorn, Imrahil and the hobbits, they all received their own fair share of attention, but all of their flowers were thrown on the ground in front of them so their horses could walk on a trail of offerings, leaving them to be trampled and tread upon. For some reason that Amelia couldn’t decipher, she received hers directly instead of the way that everyone else seemed to.   
Turning back, she saw that Pippin was also receiving flowers as she did, but Merry, Frodo and Sam were not. She sent him a confused look, but he didn’t catch it in the flurry of activity and she shook her head, ransacking her brain for an explanation and coming up with none.   
As she received her fair share of small bouquets, some of them no more than a few cloves and a single one containing a primitive whisk, her confusion only grew and she tried, in vain, to catch the eye of any other member of the procession, but after several botched attempts, she gave in and resigned herself to simply receiving the humble gifts.   
“I have no idea what’s happening.” She exclaimed loudly at no one in particular when she received her sixth, and she was fairly certain that she heard Imrahil laugh up ahead of her. She mumbled an insult beneath a breath and continued on, eventually sticking the smaller bouquets behind her ears and in her belt when she couldn’t carry them all.   
She patted the neck of her horse as it shifted a bit, a flock of birds setting off from a rooftop having spooked it.   
“Having difficulties with your steed, milady?” Imrahil called as he slowed his own, allowing Amelia to catch up to him at last. Maneuvering her horse up to his while managing to keep the impressive procession intact was no easy task, but Amelia managed it well enough in the end.   
“I have difficulties with a lot of things, the least of which is my horse.” Amelia replied gruffly, stuffing a handful of dandelions behind her ear. “Currently, I’m having difficulties with understanding why I’ve been targeted as a flowery sort of person when you’ve all been spared that.”   
“Oh, don’t tell me that you’re not enjoying the attention.”  
“Well…” Amelia teasingly cocked an eyebrow at the trail of flowers that their horses walked on. “There’s that, I suppose.” Her smile faded a bit, replaced by a thoughtful expression of confusion. “I just don’t understand- heh.” She grinned at herself and waved a hand at Imrahil’s inquisitive look. “No, I just seem to be asking the question ‘why me?’ an awful lot these days. Don’t mind me.”   
“This one, I believe, is quite simple to answer.” Imrahil chatted away and Amelia grunted neutrally in reply, though she was interested in any explanation that came close to reasonable. “Look at the one leading us. Who do you see?” Amelia gave him an odd look before she glanced at Aragorn, whose head was held high and hair tied back.   
“I see Aragorn.” She deadpanned. “He’s good with a sword and better with tracking, but he still has to use way too much time tying his shoelaces and he sleeptalks in elvish. Is that a word? ‘Sleeptalks’? Ah, well, it is now.”  
“Precisely.” Imrahil smiled widely at her, nodding. “You see a man. They see a king.”  
“I still don’t see your point.”   
“Ah. Then, look at Boromir. Who do you see?” Amelia gave Imrahil a suspicious glare and noticed that he looked far too innocent to actually be it. She was careful about forming her reply before she said as much as a word, not wanting to accidentally let something slip and having to endure his smug looks and small grins to himself for the rest of the day.   
“I see Boromir, who’s probably the best fighter out there, captain of the white tower, yadda yadda, I’m sure you know the drill by now, but he can be as dense as a sodding brick and most of the time, he’s so emotionally constipated, he’s probably shitting out diamonds.” Imrahil laughed loudly, the sudden sound attracting its fair share of curious stares and mumbled questions, but Amelia merely cocked her head at him.   
“Correct again!” He chuckled, waving a finger at her. “The man, not the title. You see beneath the surface, milady. Since you’ve never been trapped by formalities, you don’t adhere to them.”   
“And the flowers?”   
“Forgive me for saying so, but you’re something else. In not adhering to the norm, you’ve excluded yourself from being fit into it by others. You’re not outside the chain of command, but you’re not bound by it either. Instead of a lofty title, an unreachable peer, they see the woman who saved lives in their hospitals, risked life and limb for them and still had time for a drink when the day was done.”   
“I didn’t do it for them. I don’t care about them.” Amelia frowned to herself and wondered whether she ought to rephrase her unwilling confession, but Imrahil’s expression told her that she didn’t need to do so at all.  
“But they don’t know that.” Imrahil sent her a good-natured wink and Amelia felt a pang of relief that he didn’t seem to judge her for her admission. “They don’t see you as above them. They see you beside them and they adore you for that alone.”   
“Plus, they might be too scared to hand Isildur’s Heir or anyone too close to his level a handful of daisies, so they throw them at the one they see as close to them and him both, yeah?”   
“That’s the gist of it, if you choose to see it that way.” Amelia leaned forwards to take a four-leafed clover from a young boy with a fresh scar on his cheek.   
“I choose to see it.” She answered firmly, twirling the tiny plant between her right thumb and index finger. She looked up as another rain of petals came down from above and absentmindedly reached up for one with her free hand, feeling it fall into her open palm. “I see it.”


	35. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I could have played safe, but in the end the journey’s brought joys that outweigh the pain.   
> Paupers and kings, princes and thieves,   
> Singers of songs, righters of wrongs, be what you believe,  
> So saddle your horse and shoulder your load,  
> Burst at the seams, be what you dream and take to the road.”  
> -Frank Turner, Journey of the Magi

Perhaps the greatest victory abound was when the white lady of Rohan convinced Amelia to wear a corsage, albeit under stark protestations from the other party involved.   
“It doesn’t feel like me.” She complained as she twisted and turned in front of the mirror, frowning at her reflection. A large, separate chamber had been set aside for the ladies to ready themselves for the coronation, and Amelia certainly appreciated the company of a fellow woman for a change, but the fact that they were expected to emerge as ladies worthy of the court of Gondor put a dampener on Amelia’s good mood.   
“It took a great deal of coercion of various parties to agree that you wouldn’t have to wear the skirt.” Éowyn replied as she tapped her chin, giving Amelia a searching look. “Besides, this will be an event of history.”   
“Right, right, the unification of Gondor and Arnor, the return of the king, coronation of Elessar, blah blah blah, I’ve heard it before already.” Amelia grimaced at herself. She was grateful that she had been allowed her pants, but Éowyn had explained that she needed to look like she had at least made the attempt to make herself presentable. Amelia could see her point, even if she didn’t agree with it, and thus, she wasn’t quite as vocal as she usually was when Éowyn stuffed her down a newly washed cotton shirt beneath a brown corsage, a contraption similar to a corset, except it was outside the clothing and wasn’t technically classified as underwear, and a tight pair of shoes. “Why does everything have to be so tight?”   
“It is the way it is.” Éowyn hummed to herself and nodded. “I suppose it’s as good as it’ll ever be if you have any say in the matter.”   
“You know, it’s not that I don’t like parties.” Amelia thought aloud, turning away from the mirror. “It’s just that you people don’t know what a party is. Well, that evening back in Rohan came pretty close, but…” She shrugged. “It’s not a real party until someone’s dancing on a table and the host is throwing up in the bushes.”   
“For that, you could go to any local tavern, I’m sure.”  
“I tried to convince Gimli, but he told me that it would be disrespectful.” Amelia sulked, pulling a bit at her hair, which another lady-in-waiting of Éowyn had been gracious enough to pull up in some style or another. “Do I look decent, at least?”   
“That you do.” Éowyn confirmed with a nod, her golden hair a river of gold down her back, complimenting her green dress nicely.   
“It’s good to see you in something other than white.” Amelia chatted conversationally as Éowyn straightened her skirt and she got a warm smile in reply. “And you smile more. He’s that good, huh?” Éowyn blinked at her, straightening her back.   
“I’m not quite sure what you mean, my friend.”  
“Éowyn and Faramir, sitting in a tree…” Amelia sang, looping her arm around Éowyn’s, but then she remembered an earlier note she had made to herself and paused. “Hey, can I… ask you for a favor?” Éowyn raised a curved eyebrow at her, her expression teasing at best.   
“That depends on the favor, my friend.”   
“Oh, it’s nothing crazy. Well, it is, but… I just need some information, about a particular wording I’m interested in. I don’t really know how to say it…” Amelia scratched her neck with her free hand, and Éowyn covered the other with her own. On Amelia’s hand, Cilya burned to the point of it being uncomfortable.   
“I’m listening.” 

Amelia was surprised at the level of tactic involved in something as simple as positioning, but she was also aware that no few number of eyes were on anyone important enough to stand so close to the king and thus, she couldn’t blame Éomer when he was slightly bossy in telling her where and how to stand. In the end, due in no small part to his experienced instruction, she stood close enough to him for people to know that she was important in some way, but not close enough for anyone to assume that their relationship was similar to Faramir and Éowyn’s. Boromir stood on his brother’s other side, looking every inch the Steward, and Legolas had his own minor contingent of elves with him, marking him as the prince he was. Gimli’s beard had been brushed and braided and the hobbits had been given the finest clothing available, tailored for their sizes. The great eagles soared above the crowd that had gathered, calling in melodious voices,

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,  
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,  
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,  
for your watch hath not been in vain,  
and the Black Gate is broken,  
and your King hath passed through,  
and he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,  
for your King has come again,  
and he shall dwell among you  
all the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered had been renewed,   
planted by him in the high places,  
and the City shall be blessed.  
Sing all ye people!

What was most unusual however, was the absence of darkness on the horizon. The sky in the east was bright and cloudy, free of the shadow cast by Mordor after years of enduring its unnatural presence. Songs were sung after their victory throughout the city, so it was always filled with music. Bawdy tavern songs, solemn rites and praises of the king, the soldiers, the valar and everything else beneath the sun flowed from the windows, and handfuls of flowerheads were thrown from the highest windows, covering the rooftops and the streets in floral decorations. Somewhere, a bell, either of mourning or celebration, always tolled.   
The crowd hushed as one when Gandalf, his white robe shining like the stars and the moon, held aloft the crown of mithril, gold and wrought silver, letting all behold the sigil of the white tree upon it. Aragorn stood before him, his back turned towards the massive crowd of his people, clad in a black cape of velvet and ceremonial armor over his fine garb. He had been washed, and Amelia heard it had been forcefully, and his brown hair brushed until not a hair was left out of place. Amelia pitied him the uncomfortable attention, but let herself leave the worrying to someone else for the time being.   
“Now come the days of the king.” The white wizard declared as he put the crown atop Aragorn’s head, his voice rising above the chattering and mumbling of the shuffling crowd. Gondor had waited centuries for the return of Isildur’s line, despite her people’s occasional unwillingness to accept its rightful ruler, and Amelia couldn’t miss the excitement and gravity in the air. Gandalf smiled kindly down at Aragorn, who looked up at him in return. Amelia saw Gandalf mutter the rest of the traditional phrase to Aragorn before he stepped aside, to let Aragorn take his place at the top of the white stair, but she approved, feeling that it somehow made it all the more personal and all the more real for the newly crowned monarch.   
Aragorn paused momentarily before turning around, letting all regard him as their king and he certainly looked the part, but Amelia did recognize slight signs of remaining hesitancy on his part. She couldn’t blame him in the least, since thousands of people had turned up and he was facing them all, the object of their attention and affection, however they chose to express it.   
Applause exploded from the crowd at the sight of him, old, crotchety men, proud, young lads, elderly hunchbacks and fair ladies all enthusiastically participated in the ovation, all equal in their shared elation.   
“This day does not belong to one man, but to all.” Aragorn spread his arms, his voice ringing with an air of rightful authority, but also humility and honor. “Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace.” Once again, those assembled clapped at his words, shouting cries of joy into the air and a few elderly matrons simply rattling loudly with their jewelry. Amelia only stood, pride and peace bubbling in her chest at the sight, with her hands clasped respectfully in front of her and her head held high as she witnessed the birth of a new age of prosperity.  
Then, the mood changed to something greater, more respectful and otherworldly, as white petals rained down from above, upon the king and those close to him and Aragorn sung in the utter, wondrous silence, sung an ancient song of arrival, beginnings and endurance in an old tongue that only a few understood, but most present comprehended.  
Looking over the aftermath of all that had been wrought made something inside of Amelia twist painfully, but it was not a feeling she would have given up for anything. After all, and that was a thought that made a wry smirk pull her mouth upwards, that aftermath had been a long time coming.   
All in the first lines of people bowed as Aragorn moved through them, Éowyn, Faramir and Boromir, Éomer and Amelia and every guard beside them, but in a fantastical show of humility Aragorn bowed back to all those whom he had had the slightest inkling of some relationship with, before they all fell in line behind him, forming a procession that carved through the crowd. Amelia walked between Gimli and Éomer in respectful silence, but almost barged into Aragorn when he stopped, having met the procession of elves led by Legolas, who was clad in silver and white, with a gleaming circlet set upon his brow. Aragorn smiled warmly at him and the two men simultaneously reached out with their left arm, resting their hand on the opposing shoulder of the other. He uttered a simple, elvish phrase of thanks, but Legolas merely gave him a smile that bordered on smug and glanced to his right, where another group of elves, the people of Rivendell, where Amelia recognized a few from her days in the last homely house east of the sea, stood waiting. There was Glorfindel and Erestor, who had both attended the Council of Elrond, and Lindir  
Then, the Evenstar stepped out from behind an embroidered banner and heads turned on every neck to look upon her.   
If possible, she seemed even fairer, even paler and even sadder than the last time Amelia had seen her. She looked regal, her flowing gown covered in pale flowers and girt with mithril. Her headdress glittered with jewels, but it was her noble face that shone the brightest against her dark hair, tumbling down her back in soft ringlets, with diamonds hanging in small, discrete braids so they looked like stars against a dark sky. It was unavoidable that every eye was upon her, yet she only had eyes for the king as she stepped forwards, the pausing and dropping into a deep curtsy with a bowed head, a fitting greeting for a man of his position and power.   
Then, Aragorn gently reached out and tipped her head upwards as she stood once again and finally, her face broke out into a smile, and it was like seeing the sun finally break through a layer of clouds on a pale, grey day.   
They both moved so quickly that Amelia barely saw what happened, but she enthusiastically joined the applause when the two of them kissed each other in front of the whole crowd, Aragorn spinning Arwen around on his feet, even as he held her like she was made of glass. Amelia saw that they both had tears in their eyes, but the joy in their faces was unmistakable, the kind of joy that’s so strong that it physically hurts to feel.   
“So, when’s the wedding?” She shouted when they finally broke apart, grinning widely at the two of them. That earned a few chuckles that spread throughout the crowd, until no one knew where it had originated any longer, and both Aragorn and Arwen glanced briefly at her, but it was clear for all to see that all they could really focus on was each other as the procession continued, Aragorn escorting Arwen as his equal through the throngs of bowing nobles, commoners and dignitaries. “Kissing someone in public is basically an unofficial engagement, isn’t it?” She mumbled to Éowyn, who seemed to think on it a bit before answering her.   
“It’s not quite as much of a commitment as that, but it does signify… something.”  
“Got it. Unspoken rules and all that.” Amelia nodded to herself and Éowyn helpfully held her back when the line stopped again, stopping her from continuing straight into Aragorn’s back. “Thanks.” She mumbled and Éowyn smiled at her before looking at who they had stopped for.   
Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin gave each other uncertain glances, but then they bowed deeply, if a bit awkwardly, to Aragorn, who immediately shook his head and stepped forwards, spreading his hands towards them.   
“My friends…” He said in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes and what they saw the hobbits doing. Uncertainly, the hobbits looked up again, straightening their backs and shuffling their large feet. “You bow to no one.” Aragorn finished firmly, and then, the king of Gondor and Arnor knelt with a bent head in front of the four of his friends, and the movement spread like a ripple, the entirety of those assembled falling to their knees.   
Amelia briefly caught Frodo’s eyes as she knelt and knew that they both understood each other perfectly in that moment. Thrown into a wider world, forced to venture farther than they ever would have otherwise and ending up a different person, fitting neither here nor there. Then, the moment was gone and Amelia bent her head again, studying the tips of her shoes and losing herself in the simpler memories of the early days of the Fellowship, of days spent wandering in the mountains, of washing in streams and sleeping beneath the stars.

When every formality had been said, when the procession dispersed and the people started chattering and laughing amongst themselves again, it was time for the wine to flow, the music sound and of those who had come for the coronation, only a very few chose to return to their homes or temporary lodging early, for the day was still young and there was much dancing, singing, feasting and merriment to come as lords mingled with the destitute and all joined together as equals in their happiness.   
The great hall of Merethrond was filled to the brim, but there were yet more people and thus, the festivities carried on in the courtyard and in the streets. Amelia found Merethrond to be loud and noisy and thus, she remained outside, where the rest of the Fellowship was as well.  
When Amelia moved through the crowd step by step, she saw Merry, Éowyn, Faramir and Boromir standing together, all of them smiling with varying degrees of interest and enthusiasm as they discussed their plans for the coming days. She saw Frodo, Sam and Gandalf having some serious discussion in a somewhat secluded spot, a little ways off from the larger crowd. She saw Éomer, Legolas, Gimli and Elrond exchange news from each of their realms, trading information with good humor and grace. She saw Aragorn and Arwen surrounded by a throng of guards and admirers, content with simply enjoying each other’s company and occasionally greeting an old friend they had spotted amidst the many faces, with Pippin following along and occasionally chipping in with a simple comment that often spread laughs and fond nodding. Most of all, however, she saw joviality and relief, she saw happiness and humor and, most importantly, she saw undiluted hope shining in the eyes of the people of Gondor, Rohan, Rivendell and every other imaginable presence.  
“Gimli, son of Glóin, have you your axe ready?” She heard Éomer ask and she stopped in her tracks, swerving towards them in concern.   
“Nay,” Gimli spoke gruffly, “but I can speedily fetch it, if there be a need.”  
“You shall be the judge of that,” answered Eomer. “For there are certain rash words concerning the Lady of the Golden Wood that still lie between us.”   
“Well, your highness,” said Gimli, “and what say you now?”  
“Alas!” exclaimed Eomer and shook his head. "I will not say yet that she is the fairest lady that lives.”  
“Then I must go for my axe,” Gimli made to walk away and Amelia hurried towards them, attempting to intervene before things got out of hand.  
“But first I will plead this excuse,” said Eomer. “Had I seen her in other company, I would have said all that you could wish about her and hers. But now I will put Queen Arwen Evenstar first, and I am ready to do battle on my part with any who deny me. Shall I call for my sword?”  
The Gimli bowed low. “You are excused for my part, lord," he said. "You have chosen the Evening; but  
my love is given to the Morning. And my heart forebodes that soon it will pass away forever.” Amelia had gotten quite close to them in her haste, but she exclaimed a loud laugh when she heard their exchange and stumbled away, a hysterical giggle making its way out of her.   
When her laugh had stilled at last, after quite a while of boisterous guffawing, she changed her pace and marched towards Aragorn, steeling herself for the collective reaction she was sure to come.   
“Excuse me, coming through, begging your pardon, sorry, coming through…” She reiterated loudly as she elbowed her way through the people blocking her way. Her boldness, height and reputation made it easier to get through, but Aragorn had to wave her through the line of armored guards blocking her way and Amelia knew better than to pick a fight with any of them at such an event. “Thanks.”  
“It warms me to see you again. We have not yet had the chance to talk.” Arwen greeted warmly and Amelia briefly bowed her head, her own formality surprising herself just as much as everyone around her.   
“Same to you. To tell you the truth, I thought I’d be long gone by now.” The people around them were at least polite enough to pretend that they weren’t listening to every word that the three of them exchanged.  
“Have you decided when you will return to your own home?” Aragorn asked gently and Amelia coughed lightly.   
“Well, yes, actually, which brings me to what I wanted to talk with the both of you about.” Amelia squared her shoulders and looked into Aragorn’s eyes, stomping down on her last, screaming doubts. “I want to swear an oath of fealty to you.”   
Aragorn couldn’t have looked more surprised if she had slammed him in the face with a chair, but Arwen’s face broke out into a warm, knowing smile and her wise eyes gleamed at Amelia, who felt her confidence grow at the sight of Arwen’s immediate support of the proposal.   
“You realize that…” Aragorn began warily and Amelia held up her hands.   
“I know that oaths are usually reserved for vassals and lords, but it’s as much for me as it’s for you. An oath, a promise, what’s the difference? An oath is just more official, but I take it just as seriously.” Amelia cocked her head and her cheeks colored ever so slightly. “I’d swear you my sword, but, uh… I wasn’t allowed to bring it for the coronation.” Aragorn smiled at her and spread his hands in a friendly gesture, open and welcoming. Amelia didn’t fail to notice that their audience had turned their full attentions towards them and fallen silent, watching the proceedings with interest. She wasn’t sure how much they knew of her, her origin and identity, but she was aware that it was known that she wasn’t just anyone. She had some degree of status as a member of the Fellowship and her relationship with the prince of Mirkwood, the Lady of Rivendell, the Steward of the white city and the kings of both Gondor and Rohan only served to solidify that status.   
Amelia didn’t feel the appeal of kneeling in front of Aragorn, due to the casual nature of their friendship, and because she had the feeling that Aragorn had seen enough of his subjects kneeling for him for one day already, although that was unlikely to lessen in the weeks, months and years to come, she instead placed her right hand over her heart and spoke in a solemn voice with no hint of her usual wit. She had recited the phrase with Éowyn in private, making sure to know the exact words and whether she would have to make any change of wording.   
“Here do I swear service to Gondor, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my king release me… or death take me.” Amelia looked up and proudly met his eyes, a faint smile curling her mouth upwards as her words rang clearly across the courtyard, making heads turn. She had been told that there was a traditional reply for an oath of such a nature, but Aragorn disobeyed tradition in favor of reaching out and placing both of his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes intently, but happily.   
“I would not only be glad, but honored to accept such an oath from you, my friend. I would listen to your counsel, have you break your fast at my table and fight at your side.” Simultaneously, they inclined their heads towards one another. “So let it be.” Amelia couldn’t resist letting a triumphant smile break out on her face, even as some inner part of her broke under the weight of what she had done.   
After some quirky comments on her part, words of congratulations from Arwen and some of those assembled, she felt a pair of eyes resting on her and she turned to find Gandalf looking straight at her, asking a wordless question even as they were nowhere within reach of one another. Without uttering a word, Amelia held his eyes as she stepped away from the royal pair and their entourage, once again the only ones walking through the crowd alone. Clenching her jaw, she nodded at Gandalf, a single, sharp jerk of her head and she would have sworn another oath that she heard him sigh across the courtyard. Then, he broke eye contact and turned back to his own followers, returning to the more mundane conversations of the moment.   
Amelia made a beeline for Éowyn, giddy with the anticipation of telling her that she had indeed carried through with her decision, but soon after leaving the immediate rush of the moment, she did feel her joy ebbing and her smile faded, leaving behind an unbecoming and unusual expression of resignation, loss and resolve. A numbness spread throughout her limbs, but she still felt as conflicted as before she had carried through with it. The painful feelings of indecision and doubt had been replaced with grief for everything she had ever known, but not regret. She knew that some degree of that would come, but she knew that her decision, while not easy, had been necessary to make and there was no way out of the outcome any longer.   
“Hey.” She mumbled to Éowyn, feeling bad about interrupting their pleasant conversation, but not so much that she would just walk away once more.   
“Amelia…” Éowyn’s bright smile faded when she saw Amelia’s expression, and Faramir, Éomer, Boromir and Merry quickly picking up on it. “Did something go wrong?”   
“No.” Amelia strangely felt no tears in her eyes, but instead a painfully hollow spot in her chest. “No, it went just as we’d discussed, really.” Éowyn’s face turned sympathetic and she put a pale hand on Amelia’s shoulder, squeezing in reassuringly.   
“What did you do?” Merry asked her and Amelia sighed, pulling a few locks loose when she ran a hand through her hair, forgetting that it had been pulled up and twisted into a style shortly before the ceremonies began.   
“I swore an oath of fealty.” She sighed and she had to admit that she was impressed with the reactions. Éowyn already knew, but her brother’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline and his mouth popped open a bit. Faramir looked shocked, staring at her, but not in an unpleasant way and Merry grinned up at her, obviously having figured out the implications of that on his own already. Boromir simply froze up, standing still as his grey eyes rested on her.   
“You do realize those are permanent?” Faramir inquired carefully, but a smug smile was already spreading on his face, replacing his surprise.   
“Yes, I am perfectly aware of that.” Amelia sighed, twisting her head and hearing a few pops from her neck. “Then why are you sad?” Merry asked innocently, frowning in confusion at her. She shrugged helplessly.   
“Merry, I… I wasn’t happy per se, before all this happened, but I was content. I had … I’ve left a lot of things behind. I mean, I’m still struggling with the concept of… Middle-Earth, basically.” She sent him a small smile, one that he awkwardly returned. “I can’t really explain it. I think… I think I’m gonna be sad every day from now on, for the rest of my life, pretty much. Happy, too, but…” She shrugged again, feeling oddly vulnerable under the many curious eyes suddenly upon her.   
“Was it worth it?” Éomer asked bluntly and Amelia gave him a conflicted look.   
“I don’t know if it was. Is. I won’t go back on my word though. I just…” Amelia trailed off and glanced at Éowyn, who, more than anything, looked like she understood better than the others what she was talking about.   
“I was I had more than my condolences to offer.” Faramir gave her a sympathetic look, but she looked in the other direction. “I can only hope that time makes the decision easier to live with.” Amelia felt something within her constrict and she pulled away from Éowyn.   
“Excuse me.” She said as politely as she could, before turning and walking in the other direction, faster than she usually did, but she took care not to break into a sprint, for she wouldn’t allow herself to rush out of the celebration like an overemotional maiden. Instead, she made her way towards the white tree and something in her face must have shown what she felt, for when people saw it they parted respectfully, some of them mumbling quiet well-wishes and minor consolations.  
Amelia stopped at the edge of the water and wrapped her arms around herself, regarding the blooming tree with thoughtful, narrowed eyes. She was aware that someone had followed her, but she had stopped caring about most of their reactions. There would be plenty of time for those, at least, when word spread of her decision.   
With an inaudible sigh, she craned her head back, squeezing her eyes shut before she opened them again, up at the sky above her. The day was still young, but the first stars had already begun to appear. A pang of pain went through her neck when she jerked her head downwards, the sudden movement causing a loud crick. She relaxed once again when she saw that it was one of her friends who had approached her again, if rather timidly.   
“Hello.” Merry clumsily said to her as he shuffled up beside her and she smiled halfheartedly down at him. “I wanted to… check if…”  
“I’m fine, Merry.” Amelia replied automatically, sighing to herself at the words, which bordered on being snappish. “You know… No, I-I’m not fine, but I think I will be. In time. I actually think…” Amelia looked up at the tree again and a small smile finally crossed her face again, melancholic and dejected still, but also hopeful. Small white flowers covered the healthy branches. “I think I’ll be just fine.” She brushed a stray tear away from her cheek, attempting to stop the steady flow. “With time.”   
“Ah, then…” Merry cleared his throat. “It just seemed that you were-“  
“No, I’m fine.” Amelia insisted, then laughed a bit to herself. “It’s funny.” Smiling, she went on to explain herself to Merry. “I was batshit terrified of making this choice… but it all became that much simpler when I thought of myself, first. Not to sound selfish or anything, but…” She took a deep breath. “Whatever choice I made… I had to base it on what I wanted. Not what anyone else wanted, and I couldn’t let it all hinge on a single person.” Amelia smirked a bit to herself, though it was a sad one still. “No matter how much I may care for him- them. I’m not choosing a single person, I’m choosing all of Middle-Earth. Whoever comes along with that is…” She chuckled to herself, not feeling quite up to par with her usual joking. “An unexpected side benefit, I suppose.” Merry cocked his head a bit.   
“I think I understand.” He nodded slowly.  
“I was so worried about all of this coming down to one person… coming down to Boromir, or me, or my family, or anyone, but then, everything became so much easier when I realized that it didn’t. I’m not choosing Boromir or Minas Tirith or any of that.” Her smile grew a bit and she gave Merry a mischievous look, her signature smirk pulling her mouth upwards again. “I’m choosing me.”   
“Well, then.” Merry nodded, though Amelia doubted that he fully understood what she’d been telling him. “Let me know if there’s, ah, anything I can-”  
“I will. Thanks.”   
“Should I come back later?” A polite voice butted in and Amelia turned around towards Boromir, who had clasped his hands on his back as he stepped closer to them. A few of the people around them bowed to him and he gave them brief nods as he passed.   
“Speak of the devil…” Amelia drawled, crossing her arms and tilting her head at Boromir as he took a step closer to her.   
“Oh no, I was just, uh, leaving.” Merry smiled up at him before shuffling on his way, over towards where Pippin was talking to Arwen, his face alight with passion and hers bearing a fond smile.   
“Sorry I didn’t tell you.” Amelia spoke before she let him have the chance to start the unavoidable conversation. Side by side, they looked up at the white tree. Boromir, as opposed to her hasty outfit, looked impeccable in black and silver, with the sigil of Gondor on his chest and a velvety, draped cape in black.   
“Amelia…” He sounded like he knew what he wanted to convey, but was at a loss as to how he ought to do it.   
“I did think about it. Just so you know. And I don’t regret it, not yet and least, but the jury’s still out on that one.”   
“Amelia.” He turned to face her and she did the same, her mind registering that, whereas her placement with Éomer had conveyed a connection, but nothing akin to a closer relationship, her accidental facing Boromir most likely conveyed precisely the opposite to their growing amount of onlookers. “You are staying?” He sounded far less like a lord and much more the man that she knew lay beneath the years of grooming him for his office. She lost track of where her carefully constructed explanations disappeared to as she met his eyes and she finally, since bowing her head and uttering her oath of fealty, felt close to full again after the brief hollowness, her heart rapidly filling up with too many things for her to describe and accurately remember, oblivious to the fact that the entirety of the Fellowship and a large amount of the attending men and woman of the event weren’t bothering to hide their interest in their conversation.  
“You bet your ass I am.” She replied breathlessly. There was a single, precious moment of silence and infinite opportunities, but every one of Amelia’s thoughts went out the window when she and Boromir moved at the same time, crashing together. Their lips moved in synch. Boromir enveloped her and Amelia flattened her left palm against his back, the other moving up into his hair as she kissed him, and him her. It was slow, but nowhere near chaste, and to Amelia, it was like what she had imagined coming home would have felt like. There was no fanfare, no grand applause, but she felt Boromir smile, truly smile, and she did so in return, even as her lips were still locked and moving on his.   
When they finally broke apart, Amelia blinked at him, feeling no wish to step out of his arms and he seemed to echo the sentiment, resting his forehead against hers. To her surprise, Amelia felt her eyes watering slightly as they breathed together, their lips no more than an inch apart, but her smile was brighter than it had ever been, even as she noticed the clapping and the few hoots that came from around them.   
“Finally.”

**Author's Note:**

> Story updates on Tuesdays and Fridays. Aesthetics, teasers, edits and more can be found on the corresponding blog, a-shred-of-honor.tumblr.com


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